Unlucky
by Number One Fan of Journey
Summary: There is always more than one side to a story. Witness the beginnings of the 13th Hunger Games through the eyes of Careers, other tributes, mentors, Capitolgoers, officials, and the tributes' families and friends.
1. Wake Up & Face the Day

**A/N: **Hello, all, and welcome to my newest fanfic. It's meant to be a tie-in with my other _Hunger Games_ fiction, _Lucky Lady_- but you don't really have to read _Lucky Lady_ to understand this.

I just had so many things to say that I didn't get in _Lucky Lady_- things that happened when the main character wasn't there... Or when she was- but you didn't get to hear the whole story. So I've created this, for all you who couldn't quite bear the thought of my thirteenth Hunger Games ending.

So, whether you're a seasoned reader of my work, or new to my writing- I present your reward for coming this far.

Read away.

* * *

**Kyta Sastor, District 1**

I've decided the Capitol is made up of idiots.

Because it's freaking _early_. I don't get why everyone in District 1 has to be punished like this. I mean, sure, we're pretty well off, and sure, we get to train Career tributes—for example, _me_—but... the reaping. Why in the hell does it have to be so early in the morning? I know the reapings are staggered by District so people in the Capitol can see everything, but come _on_. All those poofy-haired, rainbow-skinned freaks are still freaking _asleep_ at six in the morning. So why can't we be?

I don't know. All I know is, instead of zonking out on my super-comfy, Career-tributes-only memory foam mattress, I'm standing in this overcrowded square with all these ugly, stinking 16-year-olds blocking my view of the stage. It pisses me off.

But, luckily, Herring Castronovo—our District's beloved Capitol freak—is ready to draw names. I only know this because he's babbling about it, not because some 16-year-old—heaven _forbid_—has moved over enough for me to see. Because, _obviously_, no one would think to do that.

"And our female tribute for the thirteenth Hunger Games is..." Herring says in that annoying, girly voice of his, "Kyta Sastor!"

And, finally, the idiots in my age group move aside. Some of them I end up shoving aside—oh, _whoops_—and I make my way to the stage.

I grin at the cameras, ready to let the Capitol know I'm the confident one, the strong one, the one you'd better bet all your precious money on. I get a few moments to shine—flexing my muscles and jabbing a fake punch—before Herring's back to announce the male tribute.

"Bilt Tussworthy!"

I keep my composure, only letting a sarcastic look even try to cross my face, as he walks up. I know him, kind of. We're both Career tributes, so we've run into each other a few times at the training facility. I think I sparred with him once, actually. I whooped his sorry butt, in case you were wondering.

Herring blabs something else to the audience as Bilt starts showing off—or, at least, _tries_ to—and then the weak, little Career tribute and I are whisked away to our District's Justice Building.

I'm led to a fully-furnished room, with dark blue walls and fake-jewel-encrusted wallpaper, to wait for my family. My final goodbye, or whatever they call it. In any case, I'll just tell my _dear_, dear parents—yes, that was more sarcasm, if you couldn't tell—that I'll see them in a couple of weeks.

And I do just that. I don't know why Mom and Dad are getting all emotional. Oh, boo hoo, they'll have to actually pay attention to me for a couple of weeks, instead of ignoring me whenever I get to come home from training. Idiots.

So I nod, pretending to go along with their blubbering, until a Peacekeeper _finally_ shoos them out the door.

Then I get shuffled through the crowd, into a fancy car, out of the fancy car, into the train station, out of the train station, and into a train.

Herring announces it's time for breakfast, so we all shuffle over to the dinner table, where some ugly, scrawny Avox kids serve us. Herring then proceeds to complain and laugh about him having to wake up so early and wait so long for breakfast.

Yeah. Because, _obviously_, the rest of us didn't go through that.

Idiot.


	2. Of All Odds

**A/N: **This is chapter 2, I suppose. It's quite short, but Rim's not one to use big words...

In any case, I hope you enjoy and review.

* * *

**Rim Steely, District 2**

_Finally_. It's finally reaping day.

I'm excited for this; I even woke up early—which is _not_ something I usually do—just so I could get a nice spot in the front of the 16-year-olds section.

So now I have the best view of Mayor Tungst as he blabbers about something stupid and unimportant. Oh, well. Gives me more time to wonder if this will finally be my year to get to the Games.

I _am _a Career tribute, so I have a better chance of being picked—there's some weird sort of bribery that gets extra copies of the Careers' names in the lottery—and I really hope I _do _get picked.

Because, honestly, life is boring for me. I dropped out of school _way_ early to be a Career—I mean, why waste your time in regular school when none of it matters?—but some _stupid_ government something-or-other says I still have to graduate or something... So I've gotten back into that mess, too. Now, instead of just worrying about triggering traps in the Games, I have to worry about trigger-nometry and all this other crap that's totally useless.

I'd better get picked for the Hunger Games. If I don't, I'm volunteering. I don't care if everyone would hate me for it—after all, nearly everyone in this district is ready for the reaping—I just want something exciting to happen.

"Rim Steely!" I jump back to attention when I hear someone calling my name. Then I realize it was Jumper Tito, the district representative.

But if it was him, that means...

I got picked! Yes!

I barely manage not to break out in a victory dance as I run onstage next to Jumper. I still end up doing some sort of hyper moonwalk until he says we're done.

Done? But what about the girl tribute?

I give him a confused look until I see the tribute in question next to me.

Oh, yeah. She must have already been picked. Whoops. What can I say? I just wasn't paying attention.

I'm crammed into a car with her before I figure out who she is.

Her name's Alypso Wanif. We went to the same tribute training center, so I've run into her some. She's one of those bubbly, giggly, annoying types.

But she's totally _hot_.

I think everyone in the training center has asked to go out with her at least once. I mean, she's _really_ hot. Like, you-can't-even-describe-it-with-words hot.

And _I_ get to be on her team in the Hunger Games.

I bet _that_'ll make everyone jealous. I get to hang out, for, like, two weeks or something, with the hottest chick in the district.

But, for me to win, she'll have to get killed.

Oh, well. Sucks for her.


	3. Save the Children

**Kalis White, District 3**

I tug at my brown-and-white dress uncomfortably as the mayor gives his annual speech on the creation of the Hunger Games. It's bad enough having to stand here, waiting to see who'll be chosen to die in the Games—why do they have to remind us of all the other horrible things that happened before?

I don't know. I guess I don't really care, either. I just want this all to be over so I can go home.

We'll be eating a fancy breakfast today, like we always do after the reaping. My best friend Cindi's coming over from the orphan house to eat with us. Well, maybe sneaking over; she's not really supposed to leave her house, but she does, anyway.

"Is everyone excited?" giggles our district's representative, Backa Teylor.

I always wondered why the Capitol people have to dye their skin and hair. Backa's hair is yellower than the sun—brighter, too—and his skin's this weird, purply color I've never seen anywhere else. I think it's ugly. It's probably rude to think that, though.

Now Backa's jumping around a lot, trying to wake the crowd up, but it's not working. "And!" he exclaims, digging his hand deep into the girl tributes' bowl. "Our female tribute this year is...!" He pauses, hoping we'll all be excited, but I feel more sick. I really hope I don't get chosen...

"Cindi Perlaup!"

I squeak like someone's stomped on my foot, then quickly cover up my mouth. Cindi's been standing next to the rest of the orphans, but now they've parted for her to go through.

No! Anyone but Cindi!

I can't see her through the crowd anymore, so—trying to ignore how rude it must be—I squirm and push my way through some of the other 12-year-olds until I can see Cindi again.

She's already crying a little as she goes up the steps to the stage. Backa just seems... _excited_, not even noticing that Cindi, with her stump of a right arm and tiny frame, won't have the slightest chance in the arena.

How can he not care? How can he be so ready to ship her off to be killed? She can't fight! She-she can't even beat me in arm wrestling!

I can't let her die, but... But there's... nothing I can do...

"Any volunteers?" Backa chirps suddenly.

Maybe I could do something.

But... I'm not any older than her. I couldn't fight those 18-year-olds, o-or those big, scary Careers! But...

But...

And... b-before I know what I'm doing...

"I volunteer!" My voice kind of echoes in my head, like someone else, someone far away, said the words.

But I said them.

And everyone else heard; they're making a path for me, staring at me without comprehension. I walk slowly through, still not quite sure what's going on, and eventually get to the stage.

"All right!" Backa says happily, in another sad attempt to ignite the crowd. "And your name?"

"K...K-Kalis White," I reply in a whisper so low I'm not sure if Backa could hear it.

"Okay, Kalis!" says Backa in a high-pitched voice. "Now, for the male tribute!"

He calls the name, but I'm not paying attention. I'm just watching Cindi, tears still sliding down her cheeks, as she stumbles back over to her section.

I'm in the Justice Building now, nervously rubbing my fingers over the slick, silvery couch cushion as I wait for my parents.

The door—which is covered with paintings of gears—clicks open, and Mom and Dad walk in silently. They sit down next to me as a Peacekeeper shuts the door behind them.

Mom takes my hand, and Dad follows suit. "Kalis," Mom whispers repeatedly, stroking my fingers sadly. Dad runs a hand through my long hair like he usually does to comfort me.

"I-I'm all right..." I mumble, trying not to cry. "I... I'll come back, okay? Y-You don't need to be worried. I-I'll come back, I promise!"

Mom and Dad don't reply with words, just trusting, hopeful nods.

I flinch as the door clicks back open and foreign footsteps suddenly come. The Peacekeepers.

Mom quickly kisses me on the cheek, and Dad gives me a rushed but strong hug before the Peacekeepers take them away.

"Don't worry," I whisper, though I know they can't hear me anymore. "I'll come home. I promise."


	4. Simply Wonderful

**Mimosa "Mim" Clastrop, District 4 Representative**

I think the Hunger Games are going to be simply _wonderful_ this year.

Of course, I think they're wonderful _every_ year—except maybe the first, where the Gamemakers were silly enough to let the tributes try to win without any sort of weapon (it was quite boring and slow, really)—but, oh, do I have a good feeling District 4 will win the Hunger Games this year!

Because this year, Twig Antwerp is playing. He was going to volunteer last year—he was sixteen, when Career tributes normally volunteer—but was too sick from some mercur-something-or-other poison to. But now, he doesn't look sick in the least, and I'm very excited for him to win!

Our other tribute, Circe Heron, doesn't seem like the type to win. She's not a Career tribute, and there wasn't another to volunteer for her because of that same mercur-something poisoning. Circe's not very strong-looking, but I'm sure she'll be a _dear _to work with for the interviews and such! Nothing like that Lily from a few odd years ago—oh, it makes me _shudder_ just _thinking_ about what I had to put up with then.

So now, I and Circe and Twig are stepping out of the car to go into the train station. There's quite a lot of paparazzi snapping photos of me; I _knew _yellow was the perfect color for my hair this year!

But I make my way to the front of the station, along with District Four's past winners—Ime, Mill, and, yes, Lily—and we stop there. I can't help but strike a few poses as the cameras flash—after all, I wouldn't want to be caught just _standing_ there like a lifeless little manne... manne... puppet, I mean.

Twig and Circe have just now gotten to the train station; I guess the crowd must have held them up. I quickly rush everyone inside the train—we _certainly_ wouldn't want to show up late for the festivities—and then the engine grinds and starts to take us away.

"All right, my _lovely_ tributes!" I purr, clapping my hands together and turning to Circe and Twig. "Let's see all this train has to offer us!"

Twig grins and nods, while Circe only blinks at me faintly.

I'd like to tell her to stop acting like a bother and cheer up, but I'm sure she's perfectly excited; who wouldn't be? I think she's just keeping it under wraps so she doesn't come off as rude.

So, I leave her be and take the two on a grand, little tour of the train, showing them the lounge and both their bedrooms before my stomach growls.

"Oh! I guess it's time for our light lunch!" I exclaim, totally having lost track of time. I quickly usher Twig and Circe over to the dining room, and we seat ourselves.

Circe seems intimidated by all the food, just picking at every course, while Twig is completely decimating everything that's put on his plate.

I wonder if that's how they'll be in the arena, too. Not with food, but with the other tributes.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just looking too far into things. Which my sister—who I'm much smarter than, by the way—tells me I do a _lot_.

Well, whether I am or not, I just have to say—I think the Hunger Games are going to be simply _wonderful_ this year.


	5. Running for My Life

**A/N: **Thank you very much for the comments, reviewers! They really do keep me going, and I'm always ready to hear some constructive crit.

Well, here's the next chapter for you all. I hope you like it, and keep reviewing!

* * *

**Nuray Pless, District 5**

I hate running. It's exhausting, it gets me sweaty, and it's completely pointless when you're not five minutes late for something.

But, Mom decided she needed to sleep in, so we _are_ five minutes late. And for the _reaping ceremony_ of all things. You know how hefty a fine they slap you with if you don't show up? Yeah. There's no way my family of two could afford that.

So, now I'm running hard enough to get my dull, yellow-and-purple reaping dress all sweaty and gross, and I _still_ can't even catch up with Mom. It's a _lovely_ experience.

But we've pulled up soon enough, and I sneak over to the back of the 13-year-olds' section. No one noticed, luckily. I think they're all paying too much attention to the elderly and asthmatic Mayor Agora spluttering and coughing out the history of Panem and the rebellion.

The rebellion, which happens to be three days after my birthday. Kind of neat, except for all the trouble it ended up getting us in. The Hunger Games.

I can't imagine how they came up with the Games. It's just such a twisted idea, to turn people against themselves, people who've never had _anything_ against each other. And to make it worse, all the tributes are _children_.

I'll just never know, I guess.

I turn my attention back to the stage, but I'm not exactly the tallest girl in my class; I can't see our representative jumping around, but I can hear her.

"Well, then," she squeaks excitedly, "let's see who our female tribute will be!"

Through her microphone, I can hear the papers rustling as she pulls a name out.

"Nuray Pless!"

I blink a few times, unable to register what she just said.

"...What...?"

A couple of other girls in the section have turned to look at me, horror in their comprehending faces.

"Nuray Pless?" the representative repeats.

My legs start to walk forward, without my permission.

What? What just happened? I... I was reaped? But, I... I'm thirteen! I-I've only taken tessarae once! This can't be happening!

Trying to fight the hysteria creeping over me, I nudge my way through the edge of the crowd and toward the stage.

I'm shaking now. I... I've really been reaped! I... I've really been sentenced to death, j-just like that!

Stiffly rising over the last steps, I take my spot on the dull, wooden stage. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over, and I can't stop them.

I must look ridiculous by now. Trembling, crying, in a sweaty dress—though it _is_ better than some of the oil-stained reaping outfits I've seen—not to mention my _far_-from-slender body shape.

I'm pretty sure that I don't have an inkling of a chance when it comes to sponsors.

And what else could keep me alive? No one's going to be stupid enough to ally with me, and there's no way I could make it out alive on my own.

"Odyss Simpson!" the representative chirps particularly loudly, interrupting my reverie.

An incredibly tall boy walks slowly out of the 17's section toward the stage. He takes his place next to me, though he's too busy searching the audience to look over at me.

I wonder... Is this the one who'll kill me? He's not that muscular, but he looks like he's in good shape... I wouldn't be a match for him at all...

But... I-I shouldn't be thinking about these things. Maybe, if I focus on getting a strategy... And if I get lucky in the arena... It's almost impossible, but...

Maybe, just maybe, I could survive.


	6. Family Man

**Glaucus Trayle, District 6**

"Wake up!" squeaks a voice. I don't respond at first, mumbling under my breath and turning my head on my pillow.

Then something heavy lands on my stomach, knocking the breath out of me. I sit up coughing, looking around for whoever assaulted me.

"Yes! _Told_ you I could wake him up first!" chirps my attacker. I have to blink the blur from my eyes before I can see her. It's my 6-year-old sister, Chantrea, flopped over my midsection and waving her hands in the air happily.

"What are you doing? Get off," I grunt, nudging her with my knee.

"Sorry!" Chantrea squeaks, rolling off my one-foot-tall bed.

I roll my eyes, sitting up and throwing the thin sheets off my legs.

"I won!" Chantrea continues, already bragging to her sister.

"Well, you don't have to be a meanie about it," Ayla, my 5-year-old sister, pouts.

"I'm not a meanie!" Chantrea objects.

"Well, whatever you are, get out of my room," I start, standing up with a yawn. "I have to get dressed."

"Oh! Right! Sorry!" Chantrea scuttles out of the small room, and Ayla quietly pads after her. I slide shut my "door"—an opaque, scuffed-up shower curtain, as the case may be—and start getting dressed.

I'm about to slip on my usual clothes when I remember what day it is. The reaping. The day I'm supposed to dress up in my best set of clothing, just so the Capitolgoers can ignore how poor the district people are.

I don't think we're fooling them much.

Nevertheless, I go ahead and put on my dressiest outfit: a plain, only slightly-wrinkled white shirt, with a dark, mildly-tattered jacket and matching pants that are a bit too short for me. I slip a pair of scratched-up, grey shoes on and go into the kitchen.

Chantrea and Ayla are already running around waiting for breakfast, even though they're both still in their dull, pink pajamas.

"I'm gonna get you!" Chantrea announces, racing after her sister.

"Nuh-uh! I'm gonna get _you_!" Ayla squeals back.

"How about I just get you both?" I jump in, plucking Ayla off the ground.

"Hey!" She squirms around, but can't escape.

Chantrea has stopped to laugh at Ayla, and I take the opportunity to snatch her up as well.

"Hey!" she protests, wiggling around.

I can't help but laugh at the two, flustered as they try to get out of my arms. I love my family.

* * *

Chantrea's and Ayla's tear-stricken faces are a sharp contrast to their cheerful "see ya"s just a few minutes ago. That was when I reluctantly made my way into the 15-year-old section, and later up to the tributes' stage.

Now they're bawling their eyes out, screaming for me not to go, even though they know I have to. They bury their faces in my shirt, staining it with tears, and when the Peacekeeper comes to take them away, they refuse to let go of me. I don't want them to, either. But the Capitol sure does.

Next, my father visits, and two of my friends, but no one really says anything meaningful. I'm not saying they're not sincere; they're probably just so shocked they can't think of anything... _real_ to say. Just that they'll miss me, and they'll be rooting for me, and they know I can do this.

But the last one's a lie. I'm not a Career. I'm not that strong. I don't know how to use weapons. I can't set traps. I really just don't have much of a chance.

But... I have to come back. For my friends, and, most of all, for my family.

So, I don't care if it's impossible. Chantrea, Ayla... I'll come home for you. I promise.


	7. More Than Meets the Eye

**Tierra Sawyer, District 7**

I don't do skirts.

Since my logging job would be _totally_ jacked up if I wore one, I usually don't have to worry about wearing them.

But it's _reaping_ day. So I have to dress up all fancy in these stupid, way-too-girly, pink clothes—the only "nice" outfit I own, since my family's not what you'd call rich—and put on these ridiculous, strappy, worn-out sandals that I also hate. Not only are they a betch to put on my oversized feet, they're covered in random splotches of sparkles that just look stupid.

Overall, I'm really going to look stupid. I don't look like a girly-girl and I'm obviously _not _a girly-girl, but I have to wear all this sparkly, pink crap.

Oh, well. At least it's not eaten up by holes and covered in sawdust like some of the other girls'.

...But I still hate it.

Mom and Dad drop me off at the 16's section at the town square and take their places in the audience.

I shoulder my way through some of the crowd until I find one of my friends. Kalyna, one of my best friends, is the first I come to. She's already in a group with Naenia and Wren, the only friends of ours in the same age group.

"So, the odds increase again this year, huh?" Naenia sighs, her voice faint as ever.

"Yup. You just now figure that out?" I respond, finally taking a place next to them.

Naenia frowns. "This isn't one of those things to joke about! I mean, it's the reaping! We could really get picked, and—and—and—"

"Calm down," Kalyna interrupts, putting a hand on the now-hyperventilating Naenia.

"Yeah. We're still better off than the 18-year-olds," I say with a shrug. That's about the best I can do for comforting. I don't have much of a knack for it.

Not to mention that I'm a little nervous myself.

"They're starting," Wren says under her breath, turning to face Mayor Pleura as he starts booming out the history of Panem.

I tune out. I've heard it four times already, and it never changes.

The next thing I know, our district representative—Infinity Turgit—is tromping up to the bowls of names. She starts yapping off some sort of intro, but I'm too distracted by her meter-high, swirling mass of bright, blue-and-green hair.

Why would anyone do something like that? Capitol fashions are just ridiculous. Ridiculous hair, ridiculous clothing, ridiculous skin colors and tattoos and non-human body parts... I really have no clue why they do that. I guess it's just a convenient way to burn all their money. All their money they don't need to buy a somewhat-sensible reaping outfit.

Infinity is dipping her hand deep into the female tributes' bowl, scraping her bright peach fingernails on the very bottom before picking out a slip.

"Tierra Sawyer!"

A high-pitched shriek comes from Naenia. Kalyna has to grab her to stop her from fainting, and Wren helps. All three cast a despairing look at me before I start making my way through the crowd.

Honestly, I'm just about as ready to scream or faint or run away as my friends are, but I can't afford to. Shrieking, fainting crybabies aren't the tributes that get sponsors.

So, I have to look strong. It's not that hard; I have a good build, and my past of heaving logs around day in and day out didn't hurt my physique, either.

I just have to keep a straight face. Don't cry, even if my tear ducts are about to burst. Don't look scared, even if I just want to bury my face in Mom's shoulder to make all this go away.

Just look strong. Look tough. Look threatening.

And, if I can manage to become those things...

I might just be able to come back home.


	8. Powerless

**A/N: **Hm, excuse me for any inaccuracy. I've read several times in fanfics that the boys and girls stand in separate sections... But I've found nothing in the original book that said so... So I just kind of winged it.

In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

* * *

**Arabia Smyke, District 8**

I smear on the last of my "lipstick"—it's actually just a piece of cheap hard candy, but it has a great color for lip-staining—and look myself over in the mirror.

I think I'm presentable enough for the reaping. All my makeshift makeup—my parents would never spend money on the real stuff, it's so expensive—comes together nicely, and my semi-stubborn, dirty-blonde hair has a nice wave to it today.

"Dad! Melba!" I call, tromping down the three stairs from my room to the den. "I'm going over to Euriloc's!"

"All right, Air!" Dad replies, using his nickname for me. "Say hi to Hamon for me!"

" 'Kay!" I pass through the den, wave a goodbye to my dad and my stepmother on the couch, and head out the front door.

Euriloc's house isn't far from mine—thankfully, since we're always running to each other's houses—so I arrive within minutes. I knock on the door—the doorbell's been broken for who knows how long—and wait.

A moment later, Euriloc's dad, Hamon, opens the door, recognizes me, and lets me in. "Morning."

"Morning," I reply. "Dad says hi." Hamon nods, and I walk past him into the house I know just about as well as my own.

Euriloc's room is just down the short corridor to the right. I barge in.

"Euri!" I sing, sliding into his room and flinging my arms around him. He pauses, then reaches his hands up to hold my arms.

"Love you, too," he says, "but do you mind if I put my shirt on?"

"Oh! Sure," I giggle, drawing back as he grabs a wrinkled, off-white shirt off his bed. "So, that's your new reaping outfit?"

"Yes," Euriloc sighs, tugging his shirt down over his head. "I hate the pants, but they're the nicest I have."

I look down at his velvety, bright-orange pants. "Oh, don't worry. You look fine in 'em." I bring my arm back and smack his orange-clad tush before he has time to defend himself.

Euriloc shakes his head, but I can tell he's stifling a chuckle.

"Now, hurry up, slowpoke. You're gonna make us late," I jab, sticking my tongue out at him.

"All right, all right."

I have to giggle again when he rolls his eyes at me.

* * *

"Well," I say with a smile, holding Euriloc's hands in mine, "don't get picked." I click my tongue. "Remember, I'll be over at your place for lunch."

"I'll try," Euriloc laughs, "don't you get picked, either... and I didn't forget about lunch."

Our conversation stops as the murmuring around us dies down. The mayor, who I can only see between the heads of two particularly tall 18-year-olds, is starting his annual reading of the Treaty of Treason.

This is the last year I'll have to stand here and listen to it, I guess. I'll still have to come next year, but I won't have to worry about being reaped.

This year, I do. At 18, both me _and _my boyfriend have eerily high odds of getting reaped. But I'm sure it won't happen. I mean, our couple of slips, out of that huge reaping bowl? I don't think it's going to happen.

Still, I tense when our representative gets ready to call out the name of the female tribute.

"...for the thirteenth annual Hunger Games is... Esen Walker!"

I can't help but sigh in relief, and girl about as pale as Euriloc walks up to the stage. She has no volunteers.

Well, I didn't get picked after all. I don't know why I was starting to worry about it. I mean, all the odds—

"Euriloc Uslo!"

My head snaps back to attention, looking up at the representative to see if he really said that.

Euriloc lets go of my hands.

"What? No! No, wait!" I lunge after him, grabbing his arm. "Y-You can't go! I... I..."

Euriloc gently pulls me off him. He doesn't say anything, but the pained look in his eyes says enough as he walks up to the stage.

Please, please let there be a volunteer! Euri can't go to the Hunger Games! He-he can't!

"...And I present your tributes from District 8!" the representative concludes chipperly, clapping his hands.

No! There's no way! They-they can't take Euriloc away from me! I-I won't let them!

But... But I just stand here. Because I can't save him. Because, like it or not, I can't lift a finger against the Capitol.

Because there's absolutely nothing I can do.


	9. My Brother's Keeper

**Cain Shimnon, District 9**

"Finish up, everyone," I call, throwing my plate in the sink. "The reaping's in half an hour."

"Okay, okay, don't rush me," mumbles Ruxandra through a mouth full of eggs.

"Well, I need to if you're going to take twenty minutes fixing your hair again," I respond, scrubbing the dish hastily before putting it back in the cupboard. "I'll get dressed and wake up Mom. You'd better be finished eating by the time I'm done."

" 'Kay."

" 'Kay," Sunil echoes.

While Ruxandra enjoys being a pain in the butt, Sunil's a well-behaved little guy. He's not old enough to have the sass of a 16-year-old—like Ruxandra—but he doesn't even act up like a 12-year-old. Never talks back, or "borrows" my things, or anything like that. It's nice.

I get dressed up for the reaping ceremony quickly, run a brush through my hair, and then slide over to Mom's closed door. I bang on it loudly.

"Get up and face the day!" I yell. I don't get a response.

"I'm not making my siblings late for the reaping just because you got another stupid hangover!" There's a moan this time.

"Don't make me dump ice water on you again!" I finally hear the mattress creaking.

"We're leaving in ten! You'd better be ready!"

I grumble and walk away from her door. It's not that I don't love Mom, really, it isn't. She's just always too busy being either drunk or hung over to take care of her family. Which means it's up to me, since dear old Dad moonshined himself to death when I was 8.

Our kitchen/dining room is back in view, so I pick up Ruxandra's and Sunil's burnt-egg-bedecked plates and take them to the sink. For once, it looks like _both_ my siblings listened to me for once.

I sigh and start scrubbing. This year's reaping is going to be a little different for all of us. I won't have my name in the reaping bowl at all, being 19, while Sunil is going to have _his_ name in now, being 12.

I'm glad I'm out of the running. I've taken tessarae a few times—namely when Mom started spending the majority of our money on alcohol—so I had a lot to worry about.

But, of course, my victory's bittersweet. I jump out of the participation, but my little brother jumps in.

But, he'll only have his name in once. So I don't have much to worry about.

* * *

Mom, still holding a bag of ice on her head, and I walk over to the audience section of the town square. I stand there for a good minute before I realize Sunil has followed us. I reach down and pat his head.

"Sorry, Sunny. You're standing over there today." I point at the 12-year-olds section and try to keep a comforting smile on my face.

"Oh. Sorry," Sunil mumbles, trudging over to his age group.

Mayor Regalia reads through what's necessary very quickly, and our district escort, Ugne Schon, quickly takes her place onstage.

"Well, everyone!" she chirps. "Are we ready to pick our female tribute?"

From our reaction, I guess no one is ready.

Ugne trots over to the bowl, anyway. "And our female tribute is..." She pulls out a slip I pray doesn't have my sister's name on it.

"Ione Hampur!" I exhale silently in relief.

"And our male tribute is..." she continues quickly, strutting over to the other bowl and jamming her fingers into it. "...Sunil Shimnon!"

No!

I watch my shaking little brother step away from his section.

"I vol..un..." I trail off to a mutter. I can't volunteer, can I? I'm too old.

What I thought made me safe only ended up stranding me here. Here, where I can only watch as Sunil steps onto the stage.

Just one year. If I were... just one year younger... I could take his place. If I could have been born... just a year later...

But... I wasn't. I was born one year too early.

And now...

...I'm too late.


	10. Stairway to Heaven

**A/N: **Yes, a Led Zeppelin reference. Why not?

Please review! I do so love reviews. And constructive crit, if you have any. :)

* * *

**Chara Finch, District 10**

"All right, hon," Mom starts, hovering next to Dad, "do you want us to help you down, or do you think you can handle it?"

I eye the steps on the asphalt, rubbing my knees subconsciously. Stairs have always been my Achilles' heel; I have problems with my knees, or ligaments, or _something_—we haven't bothered to ask a doctor since the last guy's exorbitant-for-doing-absolutely-nothing bill—and walking up and down stairs is the worst thing to do.

So Mom and Dad have always been used to helping me around them. But... I'm 15. I feel like I should at least be able to climb stairs on my own...

"I'll try by myself today," I decide. My parents nod and step out of the way.

There are only two steps. I take the first slowly, placing both my feet on its surface before I try for the ground. I get my right foot down easily enough.

And then my knees buckle in.

I yelp, preparing my hands to smack the pavement, but Mom grabs my elbow before I get there.

Frowning and stifling a sigh, I straighten myself up, and Mom lets go.

"To the reaping," I mutter, leading the way with annoyingly careful footsteps.

* * *

My parents hand me off to the 15-year-olds section—no stairs to worry about there—and, soon enough, Mayor Reilbur, a beldam who tries to act younger than she really is, starts her spiel on the formation of Panem and the Hunger Games.

I listen out of habit, though it's still boring and disgusting as ever. Of course, everything regarding these bestial Games is disgusting. But the Capitol is so blasé about it, even their "district representatives" are at ease with sending off a fresh batch of kids to kill.

One said "district representative", Zahir Hickory, is stepping up to the tributes' names, trying to get all of us excited.

He's badly failing.

"All right, then," he says, sounding a bit perturbed about our lack of suicidal joy, "let's just get started, shall we?" He gives a ridiculous, gulping laugh before sweeping his hand over the girls' reaping bowl and pulling a name right off the top.

"And our female tribute is—" he unfolds the crumpled paper—"Chara Finch!"

...What? What did he just say?

A few of the fifteens in front of me gasp and make a path for me.

Did he... Did he really just call me?

I lurch forward, at first thinking I'm about to stumble over, but when I try to calm my jitters, I start to progress.

Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I tell them no. No, I can't look weak here. I'll... I'll just walk straight, and...

I get through the last of the crowd and look at the foot-high, wooden stage.

And the three steps leading up to it.

I look around the edge. There's no ramp. These are the only way up.

Gulping hard, I set my right foot on the first step, then my left. I don't fall. I put my right foot on the next step, then my left.

I fall.

But... I pick myself up, and... eventually... manage to get up the last step.

I'm crying now. I'll already look pathetic to the sponsors—what kind of winning tribute can't climb three stairs?—so it's useless to hold back.

"No volunteers?" Zahir asks, his voice shrieky and blithe. "Then I present your female tribute for the thirteenth Hunger Games!" he exclaims.

No one claps. I can see a few of my friends covering their mouths and taking shaky breaths. I can see my parents crying, Mom's face smothered in Dad's coat. They all know I won't make it.

I imagine the Hunger Games... are a bit like a staircase. You climb up and up, and you tire yourself, and you want to stop, but there's no other way to go.

Unless you fall.

And I know... no matter how hard I try...

I'll be one who falls.


	11. Bad Day

**A/N: **I like the introduction in this chapter. Me and my weirdo sense of humor. :P

Please review!

* * *

**Maddox Butler, District 11**

The baby puked on my tux.

_My_ tux, my _only _tux, the only thing I have that's nice enough for the reaping ceremony.

Well, _was_ nice enough.

Dad's freaking out about the baby now, trying to wipe all the dripping gunk off his face and bouncing him up and down frantically to get him to stop crying.

Meanwhile, I'm stripping off my ruined jacket and shirt and going to the "closet"—which is, in reality, just a pile of cloth on the dirty floor—for something else to wear.

Everything's scratched up and full of holes. Everything. It's what happens when you have to reach over very sharp swirls of machinery to pick out every last head of shriveled-up wheat. We can't afford to bypass a single one of them. Especially not after the fire.

Ah, the fire. The fire that destroyed all the fields in our part of the district. The fire that forced us to move into a cramped, moldy apartment and become starving slaves for the owners of the more fortunate fields.

I grimace and put on the cleanest-looking shirt, though it's still as ripped-up as all the others. A few of my ribs are visible through a particularly large slice.

"All right, Maddox, you ready to go?" Dad calls, apparently finished cleaning up the baby.

"Sure," I reply, stepping over to open the door. Dad, dressed up in a slightly better outfit than me, leads the way down the shaky, rusted 5 flights of stairs to ground level.

We make it down in one piece, and without my baby brother spitting up on someone. That's good enough in my book.

"Let's go," Dad announces, starting down the street.

"Well, is everyone ready?" Wayra Perry, our district's representative, chirps. He skips over to the ladies' names and bobs his neon-white-haired head around excitedly. "I hope so!" He dips his red-tinted hand into the bowl and pulls out a slip between his fingers.

"Our female tribute is..." he pauses, to bring up some suspense—though no one here is excited about what's coming—"Oakley Ardsett!"

A very bony girl, with honey-colored, stringy hair in a worn-down scrunchie walks onstage. I know her. Kind of. We're in a class together—math, I think—in our school. We haven't interacted, except maybe one of us picking the other's pencil up off the ground every once in a while.

Wayra's shaking Oakley's hand excitedly, but she's far from reflecting his enthusiasm.

Figuring this out, he releases her and runs over to the boy's names.

"And our male tribute is... Maddox Butler!"

A baby's screeching wail cuts the air.

Maybe my brother knows what just happened.

The bulwark of people in front of me breaks up to let me through, and I start walking.

I'm already onstage, hand seized for shaking by the ever-buoyant Wayra, before I realize what just happened.

I just got picked for the Hunger Games.

I just got sentenced to _die_.


	12. I Hate Coal

**Chyna Liptus, District 12 Representative**

I hate District 12.

Everything is filthy and covered with this nasty coal dust, that—to my horror—has completely embedded itself in my new set of fake nails. Do you even _know _how much I paid for these? They: are extra-long; are a specially-ordered shade of hot pink I've only ever found at one salon; have 3-D, glittering, eggplant-purple, swirling flowers painted on them; and have beautiful, perfectly-white French tips.

Or, at least _had._

_Now_ my beautiful nail job is encrusted with that stupid little black dust. The French tips are almost grey, my special shade of hot pink is practically purple, the flowers are black, and the glitter's as good as gone.

And all this because the president, on some _ridiculous_ caprice, decided to let me start my job as an escort in the stupidest district we have.

It's all very frustrating.

But, I can't let that get to me. If I'm a cheerful enough escort this year, maybe Mr. President will let me move to a better district.

So, I'm perky as can be as I introduce myself to the deadpan, black-and-dusty district. I clip-clop in my high heels—which I'm _sure_ can't still be the right shade of orange in this coaly mess—and dip my ruined fingernails into the female tributes' bowl.

"Randa Redding!" I trill, acting like this is some sort of roll call. Some escorts wait a while to say the names—building up suspense, so they say—but I always found that boring. So I'll be straight out with them.

Randa's not what I'd call pretty. Her brown hair's all tangled and greasy, and her face has more wrinkles than my mother's—and that's saying something. But I _have_ seen the stylists do miracles before, so she _may _look all right for the parade.

As for the Games themselves, I wouldn't count on her. She doesn't look very strong, or like much of a fighter. And, she's not going to have a mentor. District 12 has yet to have reared a winner—which just _confirms_ how horrible a place it is.

But, I have to work here, so I'll just do my best, I guess.

"Any volunteers?" I don't wait long, and I'm soon off to the male tributes' bowl.

"Shaw Telfair!"

The boy who walks up now has the dullest shade of black for hair I've ever seen. He's not too much of a looker in the face, but the stylists will have a better time with him than Randa.

"No volunteers?" I confirm. I don't wait, though; it's obvious no one is going to throw himself in. "Then I present your tributes for the thirteenth annual Hunger Games!"

I take Shaw's hand and let him shake Randa's before I usher them to the Justice Building.

The Justice Building here isn't very nice, either. It looks _kind_ of pretty—but, of course, that stupid coal dust is all over it, which makes it look horrible.

Randa and Shaw are both letting people in for final goodbyes, and I'm left to sit and wait.

I pick at my fingernails, but I can't manage to scrape any of the black stuff off. It's just frustrating.

I can't be out of this fashion crisis and onto a nice, clean train soon enough.


	13. Too Bad, So Sad

**A/N: **I don't know what the district specialty in District 2 is- so I made one up. :)

Hope you all like (review if you do)!

* * *

**Alypso Wanif, District 2**

I'm not what you would call your typical Career. I'm not trying to impress anyone, or start my own legacy, or bring fame and fortune to my district.

I just kind of ended up here because I don't like District 2's industry. Transportation.

We build all the Capitol's trains and cars and leisure boats and even some hovercraft. We have stations that build them by hand, as well as places that use robotics to help. We even have several repair shops, lest something near us break down—though if it's in another district, it's in the local mechanics' hands.

I did _not _want to do that. I just never got interested in sticking my hands in a box, moving chunks of sharp metal, and pulling my hands back out to find them covered in dirt and grease—not to mention that I'd be doing it for the rest of my life.

And, since I'm not from the richest family, I never had much of a chance to work in another, local kind of business, like an offhand clothing store or a restaurant.

So, the only other career choice was tribute.

And, honestly, if something sprays into my mouth, I would rather it be blood than motor oil. At least blood kind of tastes good.

...Okay, wait. That sounds really creepy. Never mind.

But that's pretty much how I ended up here, on this train with this other Career who keeps staring at me when I'm not watching. He's even winked at me a couple of times.

Ew.

Ignoring that, it's been nice on here so far. The meals have been excellent—probably because they're not specially made for muscle-building—and it's pretty easy to relax on the five-feet-of-fluffiness mattress.

But I'm still not sleepy, even though it's about siesta time, so I turn on the television. It flickers to life, showing the District 1 mayor on a stage—I must have tuned in just in time to watch the reaping recaps. Good. I might be able to figure out some of the competitors.

Both from District 1 are Careers, so we'll be allies. I could probably pick them off when the time comes. I already know who's from District 2, so I don't pay much attention there. Then a simple screen reading "District 3" flashes, and the next reaping ceremony is shown.

There's a 12-year-old girl picked, but someone volunteers—another 12-year-old girl. I don't think she'll be much of a problem—hopefully someone else will get her before I have to. I don't think I'm much for killing the helpless ones, unless they're trying to steal my stuff or something.

The other tribute from 3 is a big guy named Phemus Sept. Now, _he _looks like he'll be one to avoid. I make a mental note to watch out for him.

Next is District 4. The girl, Circe, isn't a Career, and for some reason, none volunteer. She doesn't look like much of a threat.

But the other tribute, Twig, does. But, I'll be allied with him. Hopefully someone else will get to him first, because I'd be no match for him in a fistfight.

I'm thinking the girl from 5 doesn't look like she'll last long. Then the male tribute is called. Odyss Simpson.

He's cute. _Really _cute. The kind of cute that would easily get him boyfriend status if I didn't have to kill him.

He does look strong, though. Maybe I can convince him to join the Career alliance. That way I could stare at his pretty face a little longer.

But, in the end, he still has to die.

Sad, isn't it?


	14. Wait

**Valer Timber, District 7**

In the short history of the Hunger Games, District 7 has had one victor. It was the 4th annual Games when 17-year-old Kiss Ulqui brought home a victory. She's 26 now, and me and Tierra's only mentor.

Kiss. It's a peculiar name for anyone, but especially her.

...If I were to try to put it nicely, I would say she has the kind of face I wouldn't kiss at any age. Ever. No matter what you bribed me.

Yeah, I probably sound captious and vulgar. But I'm just telling it like it is, all right? You'd be thinking the same thing if _you_ saw her.

But she's still going to be one of the few people attempting to keep me from dying, so she deserves some respect, even if I find it hard to look at her face for more than a few seconds.

She says she'll be happy to coach us, but it would be better to do so in our rooms at the Training Center. Apparently they're much roomier than the train—which I, having lived in a three-room house smaller than my room in the train, find hard to believe.

But I won't censure. Kiss knows what she's doing when it comes to the Games.

So, we don't have much to do on our train ride except watch television and try to figure out the showers.

On television, I have the choice of watching reruns of the reaping ceremonies, or some drama starring wailing girls in Capitol fashion. Neither choice appeals to me much.

As for the showers, I don't think it's _possible_ for someone raised in the districts to figure it out. There are enough buttons to control fifty cars, and no sort of labeling on any of them. I've kind of figured which ten buttons control temperature and which thirty control the cerise-to-puce colors of foam spray. But I'm still lost on the rest of them, and, after getting doused with some sort of hot oil from one, I'm a little chary to try them out.

Of course, I guess I could visit with Tierra. I mean, just because we're in the same district doesn't mean we're automatically allies. And she looks like the kind of person I'd want to ally with. We're both pretty strong, and I bet, if we really tried, we could snag something straight out of the Cornucopia.

So, after drying off and getting back into my clothes, I set out to find her. It looks like I have about an hour before the next meal, so there's enough time for a good chat.

I walk over to the train car with her room, but pause before I knock. After all, she might be in the shower right now, and that would _not _be the time to walk in if I want to get on her good side.

So I listen for running water or the high-powered foam sprayers, but that I don't hear. Instead I can make out... crying? It's... muffled, but I can definitely hear crying.

But Tierra? Tierra, who didn't even break a sweat when she got reaped? Somehow I doubt that she would be sitting there wailing. The crying must just be from that stupid Capitol show I looked over.

But I still don't feel comfortable trying to go inside her space. _I'll just wait for mealtime. Then I'll definitely get ahold of her_, I think, slipping away, back to my room.


	15. Hopeless?

**A/N: **Back to the 11'ers for this chapter.

I hope you enjoy, and review if you can! I accept anonymous comments, too, so don't be shy! ;)

* * *

**Oakley Ardsett, District 11**

It's dinnertime. And between the fancy Capitol food and my near-starvation, I _really_ have to struggle not to just wolf everything down. I can tell Maddox, who's sitting next to me, is the same way.

But no matter how slowly I sip at the buttery squash stew, I can't calm my nerves. After all, no matter how much the Capitol people do for me now, they're still sending me off to the Hunger Games.

And, Maddox and I only have one mentor between the two of us. His name is Quartz Glace. He won the 5th Games and has been mentoring ever since. And I'm getting the impression he's not that good, since District 11 hasn't gotten any more victors.

He hasn't said a word to either of us yet, which I find unnerving. After all, he's going to be the only person keeping us from death with—hopefully—effective donations.

As the meal progresses, I get more and more tense about this. He hasn't given us an inkling of advice. It's not like _we_ know how to survive in the Hunger Games. Seeing it on television a few times means nothing.

It's the final course—something bright green and very cold, with icing drizzled over it—before I finally decide to bring it up.

"Are you planning to give us any advice about the Games, Mr. Glace?"

The previous conversation about Wayra's possible hair extensions cuts off abruptly, and everyone turns to stare at me.

"It's a simple question," I defend evenly, staring at Quartz.

"And a simple answer," Quartz finally replies, setting his spoon on his plate with a clack. "No."

"...Excuse me?" Maddox is the first to reply, though he and I look equally confused.

"You heard me. No," Quartz reiterates simply, throwing his napkin on the table and standing up.

I get up as well, pushing myself from the table with my hands. "Did I hear you right? You're honestly going to do nothing for us before we're dropped off in the arena?"

"That's right," Quartz answers smoothly.

"_What_?" Maddox shouts, standing up and sending his chair screeching backwards. "You're our mentor! You're supposed to make sure we stay alive!"

Quartz gives a throaty chuckle in response. "Well, I'm sorry to inform you, but _you're not going to stay alive_." He glares at as, and before I can respond, he's stomped over and grabbed my arm. "Look at you! Both of you!" He waves my arm around. "You think _anyone _in this condition could survive in the Games?" He clamps his hand down hard, almost cutting off my circulation. "I could snap you in half without breaking a sweat," he snarls, throwing my emaciated arm back. "Either of you," he adds, glaring at Maddox. "You're hopeless. A waste of my time. I'm not going to bother training you because it won't do any good." He tramps over to his train car—the closest one—and opens the door.

"Come get me when District 11 can provide some _real_ tributes." He enters his room and slams the door behind him, leaving Maddox and me to stare after him.

"Uh, I-I'm sure he's just... joking," Wayra the escort says, in a horrible attempt to comfort us.

"Yeah, sure," Maddox growls, stepping angrily toward his room.

I walk after him.

"Can you believe this guy?" Maddox spits, slowing down at his door. "Just condemning us to die like that!"

I frown, shaking my head. "Of course not. He's being ridiculous." I pause for a moment. "What do you say... we show him up?"

Maddox seems interested, turning around to face me. "How do you propose we do that?"

I hold up my index finger. "One kill. If we can score one kill, he'll see we can survive. We'll be seen as contenders. Donations will come in, and he'll have no choice but to help us then."

Maddox takes a moment to consider this, and a small smile comes to play on his face.

"I like this idea."

I grin back at him. "Then let's do it."


	16. Shut Your Trap

**Bilt Tussworthy, District 1**

Today I decided that I hate my district partner.

Kyta. There's just... There aren't words to describe her. She's annoying and haughty, but somehow threatening and circumspect at the same time.

But mostly annoying. She's always babbling about how all of the other competitors are total weaklings compared to her, and blah blah blah.

All right, there's no denying she's strong, but, really? She beat me in sparring _once_. Whoop-de-do.

So while she's yapping about how useless the rest of the Careers look, I try to tune her out. It's very, _very_ hard, but I manage to after a good five minutes of slurping up reddish soup.

Now, as for what _I've_ gotten out of the Career reapings.

First, there's Kyta. Annoying, annoying, _annoying_, but not one to underestimate. She's going to be a good teammate at first—providing she _has_ the ability to _shut up_—and she'll be tricky to take down once the field of tributes dwindles.

Then, from two, we have Alypso and Rim. Alypso doesn't look very strong, but she's probably light on her feet. Rim'll be more of a contender than her, I'm sure.

From four, we don't have a female Career this year—dunno why; we're still cut off from other districts no matter what our occupations are—but there _is_ Twig. He _definitely _looks useful. He's probably stronger than me—but I'm sure I could overpower him with someone else's help. Maybe Kyta, our wonderful, perfect, super-strong, clairvoyant, ultimate tribute, would help.

Ugh. I _really _wish she would shut up about herself. But Herring the escort is so wrapped up in her speech—in his own, idiotic, little way—I don't think she's likely to be interrupted.

And then Philemon doesn't look like he's going to talk, either. Of course, he hasn't since he won the Games.

I don't know why—no one does, since he's refused to communicate anything that wasn't absolutely necessary—he committed himself to be an Avox. He still _has_ a tongue, of course—after all, he can still eat perfectly fine—but he won't speak.

Which kind of sucks for us.

Of course, we've already _had_ plenty of training, and I don't think there's much he could help us with, even _with_ words. I mean, he _has_ had experience in the actual Hunger Games, but I've watched every single one, and all their analyses, several times. There's probably nothing he can teach me.

So, I'll just let him be silent. Though I'd _really _like him to tell Kyta to shut up.

...I would do it myself, but she'd probably just punch me in the face and keep blabbering.

Either way, I'm still listening against my will as she starts bragging about her bench press record.

...

I hate my district partner.


	17. What I Have

**A/N: **Well, I ended up putting pretty much every other unmentioned district industry here. I probably guessed wrong, but oh, well. This is how it works in my little world.

As always, enjoy and review!

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**Ione Hampur, District 9**

I can't sleep.

Even though this bed, it's... it's way better than what I have at home. At home, I just have a few wooden pallets with a sorry excuse for a pillow top stretched over them. But this... I don't even know if the _mayor_ could afford to sleep on something like this. There's more than enough room to fit me, my mom, and my baby twin sisters across the top—and there must be at least three mattresses in this mess, it's so tall.

This single bed, something I'm sure everyone in the Capitol has for himself or herself... People in my district would kill for it. This could sleep three small families, easily, and the bedding itself could provide for four more.

And it's more than comfortable enough to fall asleep on. But I can't sleep. How could I? There's just too much going on in my head.

Like how the Capitol could easily have luxury like this, waiting for them every night, when ten of my districtmates could pool their yearly wages and barely afford a single mattress.

District 9 just isn't one of the well-off districts. Our main industry is chemicals and pigments. Dyes for silk and cotton, to be shipped to District 8. Paints and primers for house-painting in the Capitol and the richer districts. Tattoo ink and pen ink and the special kind of synthetic juice that dyes skin for the fanatics in the Capitol. They're in demand, by almost everyone in the Capitol—but we just can't seem to make a good enough living out of it.

The rest of the chemical industry here... There's not much to it anymore. After the rebellion, jobs and industries kept getting shipped off to where they were most "useful". I think the Capitol just wants to keep us from possible contact with the other districts.

So now, petroleum refineries are in District 5, where the oil is. Plastic making is in District 3, where everything gets put into molds in the factories. Chemicals for medicinal use are in District 6, where the pills and syrups are made. A lot of other chemical industry is done in the Capitol itself, so that we don't have access to anything dubbed "too dangerous".

But we do make some fertilizer here, with the help of shippings from District 10. That's... about it, as far as District 9 goes.

We're not a very big district, but we still don't get sufficient funds from the Capitol. Just enough to keep us working. Because there's nothing else we can do.

And there's nothing _I_ can do about getting picked for the Hunger Games. I'll do my very best to kick some tail—but I already know I won't be much of a contender. I... have some sort of nerve, or maybe muscle, problem. I can't keep my hands steady enough to draw out pigments, and I can't move my arms smoothly enough to stir them up. I can't keep my elbows locked long enough to move boxes of shipments, and I can't keep my fingers steady enough to help document things.

In the district, I had to take up a career of odd jobs because of this—and now, in the Games... I don't know what'll happen. I... I'm not a weakling, though I don't get much to eat, but...

But I can't handle weapons, I know. I won't be able to do much in hand-to-hand, either, though I might be better at that.

Then... how else could I survive? I'm a fast runner, but... but the Gamemakers will make sure I can't just run and stay away. And I know the Careers can probably outrun me, anyway.

So... What do I have, then? What could I use to ensure my survival?

My mind whirs, pulling up absurd things that I know couldn't make me win, like plant knowledge, or digging holes.

But... I know that won't help.

I know...

I really have nothing.


	18. Can't Touch This

**A/N: **Whew. This chapter was tough for me. Because I've already characterized Phemus as a potty mouth, so I didn't have much of a choice on how to word some things here...

Even though I really hate swearing...

...So I've still censored most of it.

Hope you all like this chapter despite! Review, please? :3

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**Phemus Sept, District 3**

My stylist team is nothing but a squadron of idiotic, sorry bitches.

Why? Because not only do they support the anti-clement Hunger Games enough to work for its creators—and babble about every inane, unimportant piece of sh*t that's happened to them in their workforce _the entire f***ing time_—they decide they have to rip off all my body hair.

What. The. Hell? I've seen _tons_ of male tributes that didn't have this done. _Tons_. But apparently, I'm different.

No, scratch that—the f***ing _stylists _are different.

So, because everyone here is a f***ing idiot, I'm getting the hair that's _very _well-cohered to my skin forcibly ripped off square by square. Even my fledgling chin-curtain beard isn't spared.

Did I mention this is _completely f***ing pointless_?

But oh, well. Can't really do much about it, can I? I could probably punch the corpulent, gold-skinned stylist and knock her out, but who knows what the Gamemakers would do to me then?

So, under this invisible threat, I try to ignore the pathetic a**holes as they cosset every last centimeter of my skin.

That torture ends, eventually, but, somewhere in the midst of cleaning my scraggly-haired scalp...

One of them tries to take off my eye patch.

So, naturally, I punch her to next Tuesday.

F*** it. I'm done playing nice. Because you can f*** with my hair all you want, but you _never _f***ing _touch_ my eye patch.

...My right eye's been useless from birth. But we never bothered with an eye patch until the factory accident.

The accident?

...Let's just say robotic drills malfunctioning is very bad.

I was 13 then. Mom was still there to worry over me at the medic's overcrowded house. There to make me an eye patch out of her only winter scarf when the medic told her he had none to give.

...She wasn't there two years later.

"Raya!" shrieks one of the stylists, scampering over to where her purple-skinned, a**hole coworker fell. The main stylist, the gold-skinned one, looks at me with a mix of horror and disdain, and, having no better ideas, I grin back at her.

"Guess you weren't expecting that, huh, bitch?"

She continues to frown at me, but soon breaks off and checks on her assistants.

"Oh!" the first to freak out tuts worriedly, looking about on the verge of tears when she discovers Raya's nose bleeding.

"What is it?" Raya wails. "What did he do to my beautiful face?"

I roll my eyes. Sh*t, have these idiots seriously never seen a broken nose before?

The canary-skinned assistant helps Raya back up and helps her walk out of the room, leaving me and the main stylist alone.

"Well," I whistle, "looks like I've got you all to myself, then."

The main stylist scowls and spits some words I can't understand through her accent. She struts back toward me, reaching her hands back for my hair.

"Oh, and in case you were wondering, you're not gonna f***ing touch my eye patch."

She warbles something else I can't make out, and then runs off to a far counter. She pulls through several drawers before finding what she wants. Stomping back, she holds the hairbrush or whatever it is behind her back, then approaches me from behind.

I sit still for a second—though if I catch her f***ing with my eye patch, I'm punching her, too—and she puts a cautious hand at the bottom of my hair, pulling it up some.

Then something suddenly pinches the back of my neck, hard, and what I can see through my good eye starts to blur.

Sh*t, what is this? Some sort of sedative?

I start to wobble, and I vaguely feel the stylist moving me against a wall so I don't flop over.

Well, f***. At least I still had my fun.

...If my eye patch's been moved when I wake up, I'm gonna make sure all hell breaks loose.

My vision and hearing fade.

_Well, whatever happens, I don't regret what I did to that Capitol bitch_, I decide, a grin on my face as I black out.


	19. Mutilation

**A/N: **This chapter's shorter than most, but hopefully, you'll still enjoy it.

Also, I put up a poll on my profile page. If you're reading this fic, you're someone I'd like to vote.

Enjoy, and review if you can!

* * *

**Tora Bonnicraet, District 4 Head Stylist**

This is the second year I have to decorate a tribute without using my tongue to instruct her.

My tongue was destroyed three years ago in an innovative, expensive piercing project gone completely awry. The damage was so horrible and painful the surgeons had to choice but to completely remove my tongue.

Or, at least, that's what I am to make everyone believe.

In reality, my tongue is gone because, for a short period, I was an Avox.

An eyewitness declared he had seen me in a violent rally to stop the Hunger Games. I was convicted and punished for crimes against the government before the tape revealed what the witness did not.

It was not I, but my sister, who was at the demonstration.

She and I were born two years apart, but we look like twins. At that time, we were even so close as to get the same body alterations, aside from her cat-eye surgery. It's understandable how I could be confused for her.

It's not so understandable how the Capitol could mutilate a human being like this. And go further, to make the speechless into their slaves.

While my guilty sister didn't have a chance to escape that way of life, I _did_ get my job back, eventually, after my complicated acquittal and a lot of convincing. But, really, I'm still the Capitol's slave. I can never tell the public what happened; I would be executed for sure.

I am glad I resumed my stylist occupation, though. While I never quite agreed with the killing aspect of the Games, I always loved how the poor district children could for once have a chance to be beautiful. I've seen the citizens lined up for the reapings, in their raggedy clothing, with not a speck of makeup on their faces.

If the tributes can put aside what happens later, even for a moment, I know they must love this.

I wonder if the girl in front of me now is relishing her opportunity. My assistants have done a good job with her, except her hair, which is so short I can't do much with it, either.

The tribute, whose name I know to be Circe, doesn't seem that happy. She just seems anxious, and a little coy as her eyes nervously follow my hand. I suppose my lack of speech makes her fret.

But there's not much I can do about that.

What the Capitol did to me is unchangeable. My tongue will never return to my mouth, and I'll never know the joy of singing or speaking again.

Taking a moment to look over the nervous tribute, I wonder...

I wonder how the Capitol will mutilate _her_.


	20. Right Now

**A/N: **Thanks to those of you who have voted on the poll so far!

And thanks in advance for the reviews you're going to give me. Because you'll review. Right?

* * *

**Pich Ave, District 6**

My stylist, Tuttle Juniper, is putting the final touches on my costume. I'm dressed up as a giant pill—which is a completely unattractive getup, especially when I actually have a few curves.

He finishes with the odd cloth, and now starts putting makeup on my face that matches the blue and red of the costume.

"Now, dear," Tuttle starts in his overly-gentle voice that honestly creeps me out a little, "you have to outshine everyone there, all right? I don't want people pooh-poohing my work because you weren't energetic enough," he hums, trying to debar my apparent tendency to be unenergetic.

"Right..." I reply, stifling a sigh. If people make fun of his work, it's probably not because of the person inside.

Tuttle puts one last layer of blue over my eyelids before turning me loose.

Now I'll be making my way onto a float, where I'll stand alongside Glaucus.

I wonder if we'll dance around up there together. I mean, it's pretty obvious we're going to be allies, since we know each other. I actually used to be his girlfriend.

Well, I use the term "girlfriend" loosely. It was back when we were little, and more of a game than a solid relationship. I probably could have been his girlfriend later on, if I didn't have to move to different part of the district after primary school.

I'm not sure how our alliance will be. The Careers don't have to worry about getting together, since they'll all meet at the Cornucopia. Most likely, we won't find each other for a few days.

I'll be going through the environment silently, when suddenly, I'll hear a crack, a twig snapping, or something. I'll ready my weapon, pointing it at the newcomer, who'll also be prepared to attack me. Then we'll realize we're facing down our districtmate, and put our weapons down, continuing through the Games together.

Well, that's how I see it happening, at least. We're apt to survive the bloodbath—neither of us is stupid enough to run for a weapon with the Careers, and we'll have run far away by the time any of them get something that could kill us.

But that's all later. Right now, I need to get my crappy-costume-covered butt up onto the float.

Glaucus, dressed as a different kind of pill, is there already, and he helps me on. I smile at him, and he smiles back—not very much, but I never remembered him having a very big smile—before the horses start to tug us out of the Remake Center.

It looks like he's planned on us going into this together. He takes my hand, and we start dancing when the blaring music whooshes on. Neither of us has any idea what we're doing, and our costumes keep us rolling off each other, but it's fun.

Fun. I bet I won't get much more of that, will I? While I'm not planning to die early on, there's a good chance I'm not going to make it back home to Dad and Mom.

Dad and Mom. I guess they're watching me right now, aren't they?

So, even though I've really talked myself out of my good mood, I keep a smile plastered to my face as Glaucus continues to dance with me.

Because, no matter how hopeless this will be later, I'm fine right now.


	21. Fashionable

**A/N: **Oh, how clueless. o.O Capitolgoers are really something else...

(Her name is pronounced rohs-lin, not roz-e-lin, in case you wanted to know. Not sure myself how to pronounce her last name. ^^;)

Enjoy, and review if you can!

* * *

**Roselynne D'Aubigne, Capitol**

I've always wanted to be a stylist for the Hunger Games.

It's an esteemed position, and, if you don't count the assistants, there are only 12 chances to get in. So that's really why I'm not one yet. I mean, I'm totally good enough. I just have to wait until a position finally opens up.

Because I'd really love to be a part of the Hunger Games. I think it's the best thing since wing grafting—I myself have gotten wings attached, ones with nice plum and chestnut colors on them—and, since I'm not good at speeches, stylist is the only position feasible for me.

That's not to say I don't have an interest in fashion. Oh, I totally do. In fact, the parade's always been my favorite part of the Games. I've always only gotten to watch it on television, but this year, I finally snagged a ticket to see it in person. I even—get this—get to stand at the City Circle itself. Since the floats stop there, I get to marvel at the costumes far longer than somewhere the floats only pass by.

I do have to wait a couple of minutes before they come into view, but it's worth it.

District 1's costumes are amazing. They were made to sparkle, like all the wonderful things that come out of their district, and the skimpy cloth the stylists used really show off the tributes' muscles.

The Careers from District 2 don't match like the others. The boy is dressed like an engine—it's not that great of an idea, which just _proves_ I should totally be the stylist instead of whoever's there—and the girl just has a dress with train tracks printed on it. It's tasteful, but boring.

Now, whoever worked on the tributes from District 3 does not deserve replacement. The job they did, turning the little girl and the big guy into full-blown cyborgs—well, I guess it's not real, since that would interfere with the competition—is amazing.

The District 4 tributes are also dressed well. The boy is topless, but it works very well for him, and the girl is donning a magnificent, blue dress, so unlike the destitute, shabby clothing she was wearing when she got reaped.

Now, I hate to diatribe, I really do, but the District 5 stylists _definitely_ need to be thrown out. I could do so much better. I mean, all they did was take normal Capitol outfits and soak them in oil. Yuck.

District 6 has a horrible set of costumes. No matter what the stylists do, pills make unattractive getups. But the two tributes aren't being diffident—much to the contrary, they're _dancing_. It's been a while since I've seen cooperation like that.

Though they're dressed as trees, the sevens don't look too bad. The stylists did a good job with the makeup, mostly.

Districts 8 and 9 are just dressed in colorful clothes that aren't tailored as well to the contestants as they should be.

From 10 are tributes dressed as cows and lambs. But the outfits conform to them well, so it works all right.

The girl from District 11 is in an apple suit, and her districtmate is dressed as a sheaf of wheat. Neither looks very good. It looks like they've been starving themselves for some reason.

See, kids? Anorexia doesn't help your looks at all. Get lipo instead.

Then comes 12, where the boy is dressed as a miner—oh, so boring and overused for that district—and the girl is in a jumpsuit disseminated with coal dust. I could do a better job, but it's not too bad.

Overall, the stylists did all right this year—though I do think I could totally outdo a lot of them.

But the parade was fun. I can't wait to see the interview outfits!


	22. Make a Difference

**Neoptolem ****Nikephoros, Capitol**

Well, it's the first day in the training center for this round of tributes. Some of them, I notice whilst checking their names off my clipboard, look scared about it, while some are much more eager. Most of the keen ones are Careers, I think. They're from Districts 1, 2, and 4—which are known to provide Careers, even though it's against the rules.

But, oh, well. I'm not here to enforce that rule. I'm here to take a head count and get everyone started on the stations. I also account for any injuries that may inadvertently pop up, and make sure no tribute tries to train with another tribute.

Because, after that martial arts station/punctured lung incident the other year, the Gamemakers ended that practice. After all, going into the Games injured definitely messes with your chances of winning.

And we try to keep things fair at the Training Center. Everyone can get a chance at any station he or she wants, everyone gets to eat whatever he or she wants at lunch, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

My clipboard now tells me every tribute's accounted for, which means I can start my introduction.

"Good morning, everyone," I begin, letting the hand with my clipboard fall to my side. "My name is Neoptolem, and I'll be introducing you to the Training Center." I survey the semicircle of tributes, which by now has fallen silent.

"Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. You'll be free to travel from area to area as you choose, or, possibly, as your mentors have chosen. Some of the stations teach survival skills—" I motion at the closest of these, a fishing station—"and others, fighting techniques." I wave my hand toward the nearest of those, a sword-fighting station.

"You are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on hand if you want to practice with a partner." Some of the tributes nod, while others stare blankly at me as I raise my clipboard again. Sliding off the attendance sheet and slipping it to the back, I start down the list of stations in front of me.

By the time I've gotten to fishhook-making, I don't think any of the tributes are listening to me anymore. Yes, it's a long list, and yes, most of the stations you can probably figure out on your own, but, really. Show a little respect, why don't you?

All right, this happens every year, I admit it. What can I say, I just don't have interesting material.

I go ahead and finish the list, and by the time I do, all of the tributes are looking restless.

"That's everything," I finish, dropping the clipboard to my side again. "Go try some stuff out."

The Careers take off like bullets, while some others doggedly hurry after them, and others amble along aimlessly.

An interesting bunch this year, I guess. It's about the same every year. The handful of people who want to be here, the handful of people who want to impress for alliances, and the two handfuls of people that just want out of this.

That's understandable. I wouldn't want to be involved in a fight to the death, either. Though you could argue I'm involved since I work here.

I like to argue that I help make the Hunger Games better. That letting people know how to kill will make the others' deaths more efficient and painless. That teaching people how to survive will help lead them away from a horrible death by starvation or error.

But they still die. And, even if this is my living, even if I'm supposed to love this, I still end up hiding my face from the television screen when the Games begin. Because 23 of these kids _will_ die, no matter what.

All I can do is hope to make it a little less painful.


	23. Chances Are

**A/N: **This fic isn't dead! Aha, I was just on a weeklong hiatus for church camp.

And I hope this week hasn't made you cry too much, because, more likely than not, this is what will happen to my chapter updates starting August 15th. I'm joining a sort of boarding school where I probably won't be able to type on weekdays and almost certainly won't be able to put chapters up.

Either way, thank you for waiting, and here is your reward. :3

* * *

**Esen Walker, District 8**

I've finally been turned loose to the Training Center's stations.

Since there was nothing _not_ pointless to do on the train ride here, I used the time to plot out how I'm going to do this.

First I need to rack up some weapons skills. It'll have to be something light, since I'm not much of a weightlifter. I think the rapier station—which is empty as of now—sounds good, so I head over there.

The instructor, Whittle, gives me some sort of dulled replica of a sword, then starts our lesson.

I'm doing fairly well. While I'm not the fastest, I'm good at breaking down the processes. It makes things a lot easier when you get to analyze them.

So, I should be able to handle a rapier should I find one in the arena. Of course, I won't charge into the Cornucopia to find one, because I'd definitely get...

Um...

Eliminated.

I give my head a quick shake. I don't need to be thinking about that. I need to be thinking about this sword practice, especially since Whittle has taken away the dummy I've been using and has drawn a dull blade of his own.

We start to spar—only lightly and slowly, since this is obviously my first time sword fighting a real person.

But I make progress. After only a few minutes, I land a jab to Whittle's chest, making him back up. He nods at me, a lopsided smile creeping across his face.

Well, if I can land that kind of blow on a tribute, with a real sword...

I'd win that match.

I think I've racked up enough experience here—there's no guarantee I'll get my hands on a foil in the arena, so I need to be prepared in other areas—so I move on to another station.

I'm not fortunate enough to claim another weapon station for myself this time; everything with light weapons has at least one tribute.

Oh, well. I don't mind that much.

I decide to try the dagger technique station; the only tribute there is a little girl, who I think is from District 3.

Since the daggers are at the opposite end of the Center, I have to cross a few stations. First animal-skinning, then the empty knot-tying station, then the substantially crowded weightlifting station. The loud voices and clacks of the equipment make me stop to look.

Most of the people there are Careers.

Ah, Careers. The tributes that always play the Games as they're meant to be played, violently and catering to the audience. The dogmatically insensitive killing machines we've gotten almost every year.

To think these people would go so out of their ways to _kill_ me!

I shake my head quickly. There's no use of thinking like that.

Even though they _are _out to kill me...

They'll... really be after me, won't they? We'll be in the arena in just a few days, and these tributes... They... They'll be trying to _kill_ me! Kill me, where I'll never get to see my parents or friends again, where I can't chase the boy I've always liked!

But, but, they won't kill me, right? I mean, I already know I can handle a rapier, right? S-So, if I manage to find one, I can win, right?

I look at one of the Careers showing off, the boy from District 4.

The amount of weight he's lifting is _insane_. He... He could probably snap any rapier, in my hands or not, to pieces.

I... I don't have a chance, do I? These people, they're-they're going to kill me, and there's no way I'm going to be strong enough to stop them!

I... I...

I'm going to die!

And suddenly, the room whorls around me, and I vaguely feel the sensation of falling over before everything goes black.


	24. For Two

**Odyss Simpson, District 5**

I have to say I'm not a big fan of the Training Center.

So, it's a good idea to give people some idea of how to survive and handle weapons, right?

But, seriously? Why do we have to be in there together? In the end, we're all going to be trying to kill each other, so it's not like we can be friendly or anything.

Not unless your name is Alypso.

Alypso's been batting her eyelashes and hitting on me since the second I stepped in here. And it's really creeping me out.

I don't know what's _wrong _with her. She's completely obsessing over me. Trying to make me go to the station she's training at, trying to latch onto my arm, trying to get me to join the Career alliance... It's just not right.

Not that joining the Career alliance is out of the question. I wouldn't mind having the stronger people watch my back for a couple of days, then just make a run for it when the number of allies wanes.

Of course, I probably couldn't let myself sleep with a bunch of born-and-bred killers right next to me.

I probably couldn't sleep with any of these guys by me, really. Even the non-Career tributes are in here to win. And I won't be able to trust them if they're out to kill me. Simple as that.

That being said, though, I have an odd urge to ally with that Kalis girl from District 3. I don't know why. She seems like more of a threat than the 12-year-old from District 9... I guess she just reminds me of my sister, Jacklyn.

Jacklyn's 11. Only one more year to be a kid, without worry of getting reaped.

But she still has to worry about me, who _did_ get reaped. She'll have to watch every second at home, and every update at her school lunch. And, odds are, she'll have to watch her big brother get ripped to pieces by a Career tribute.

The thought makes me cringe. I can't let that happen to her. I have to win this, so she'll never have to be haunted by my last torn and bloody moments of life.

And, _I'd_ rather not get myself torn to shreds, either.

But I think I'm going to go it alone. I won't feel comfortable by anyone—most of them because they'll be trying to kill me, and Alypso because she's... she's just a love-struck psycho. _And_ she'll be trying to kill me.

So, I'll just avoid her and learn a useful skill or two at the Training Center in the meantime.

And when I'm brought into the arena, the Cornucopia gleaming, the starting gong booming, and the cameras on me, I'll make sure I survive.

For both of us.


	25. Strategizing

**A/N: **Lately I've been fussing over the title of this story. It just started sounding stupid to me. Anyone have a good suggestion?

Oh, and cybercookies to anyone who can figure out why Maddox's last name is Butler. I'll give you a hint: it has to do with his district partner...

Read & review & I will love you. :D

* * *

**Maddox Butler, District 11**

It's lunchtime at the Training Center. In other words, time for our strategy to get started.

Oakley and I hurry to be the first ones in line, pile up some food, and sit down together.

And now we wait, trying to look as pathetic and enervated as possible, looking around the tributes getting ready to sit down.

Admittedly, trying to use pity—which I _hate_, but it's all I have to work with—is not a killer strategy to lure people into an alliance. But there are a couple of people here foolish enough to try a worthless alliance with us. And we have three days. Hopefully someone will attempt to befriend us.

—And seconds after I finish my thought process, the girl from District 4, Circe, sits next to Oakley. Oakley raises her eyebrows a little, but doesn't turn to look at Circe.

It's all right not to start the conversation. We want to seem pitiable, but not so much desperate for an alliance.

...But Circe doesn't start a conversation, either.

So the three of us just eat in tense silence—though I keep looking around at the other tributes, who have refused to sit by us—until it's time to go back to the stations.

Well. That didn't seem to work, I muse with a frown as I step back from the table. An Avox boy picks up the plate and trash once my back is turned.

Oakley walks out a few steps, toward some of the further stations, before she starts conversation with me.

"Well. That didn't seem to work."

I almost laugh at her echoing my thoughts, but the situation's bleak enough to stop me from doing so.

"Yeah. We still have two more days. And it looks like we didn't really scare her off, so there's still a chance."

Oakley nods. "Good point."

"So," I sigh, putting my hands behind my neck, "what do you want to do now?"

Oakley clicks her tongue, something she does often when she's thinking. "Let's try... Weapon-making," she suggests, pointing at the station closest to us.

"Sounds good."

We take the few steps over there, and the instructor, Weld, starts us off on making spears out of tree branches.

I should be paying more attention—after all, the odds of us getting our one kill without weapons is slim, and the odds of getting a real weapon from the Cornucopia even slimmer—but I can't help my mind from wandering.

I wonder what Dad and Anson are doing. Dad's probably not going to be able to take as many short breaks from work to check on baby Anson, since I'm not there to help with income.

So, Anson's probably just going to wander around the little room, digging a tunnel through my meager pile of clothes and cuddling them like he does a lot. And Dad's going to be worried out the wazoo for him _and _me.

But let him be worried. When I step in that arena, and Oakley and I get our first kill, I'll get to relieve him. Tell him, "See? I can do this. You don't have to lose sleep over me. Just take care of yourself and the baby, and I'll be back in a few weeks."

Because I _will_ be back. It'll be hard. I'll have to kill other humans. I'll have to decide exactly when to break the alliance with Oakley without leaving myself defenseless. I'll probably get pounded and horribly injured.

But I'll come back victorious.


	26. The Pack

**Tierra Sawyer, District 7**

Valer and I decide to sit with the Career pack for lunch. We've both got pretty strong builds, so if we attempt to join the pack, we'll be let in.

And they let almost anyone join them. After all, if someone proves to be useless... One quick snap of the neck, and no one has to worry about it anymore.

So the Careers let us sit next to them without making a fuss about it. The boy from 4 decides to greet us with a high-five, and we comply. Might as well not get on his bad side, especially considering he's the most muscular here.

We take our seats next to the boys from 2 and 1, who give us minor acknowledgement.

Conversations pop up about random things. We start with some of the Training Center employees, and Valer and I laugh along with them, but when the conversation changes to Career training from long before the Games, we don't have much of a choice but to drop out. We jump back in when the subject changes to the Capitol food and then somehow digresses to the other tributes.

"Yeah, seriously," the 4 boy says with a nod, talking about his districtmate. "She's not any sort of Career. But that's all right," he continues with a yawn. "She'll be easy to kill."

A couple of the Careers laugh in agreement, but Valer and I don't. Because we both know that killing is something Careers do, but murder, funny? That's pushing it.

"So," the District 1 girl, who's about as intimidating as me—and _that_, my friend, is saying something—starts, looking at me, "who do you think is the easiest kill?"

I immediately frown, but I'm quick to change it to a more thought-engrossed expression. I'm seriously considering saying the boy from 5 just to tick off the Career that's obsessed with him. That's probably not the best idea, though.

"The girl from 11." I stick a bite of food in my mouth to show that's all I have—or am willing—to offer on that subject.

"And you?" the first Career continues, looking at Valer.

My districtmate looks around coolly. "Well, I couldn't say. Don't know much about them yet. But yeah, the 11's don't look formidable this year." He takes a bite out of his bread, and I can tell he's about as uncomfortable with this subject as I am.

But, we can't afford to be squeamish here. It's the Hunger Games. We're probably going to have to kill some people. Hear the cannon, walk away, get over it.

But I can't help thinking it won't be that easy. I mean, I may appear to hate everyone—and often, I do—but I'm not what you'd call homicidally-inclined. I've imagined strangling a ne'er-do-well many a time, but it's not like I would really put those thoughts to action.

If I join the Career pack, they'll expect me to kill. No questions about it.

The only question is, will I? Will I be able to take lives like that, for these strangers that will only try to kill me in the end?

The conversation's gone back to a more pleasant subject, but neither I nor Valer has jumped in.

I exchange a silent glance with him, and I know he's thinking the same thing.

We're not joining the pack.


	27. Stronger Than You Think

**A/N: **Well, everyone, after this chapter, this fic will be titled _Unlucky_. It's not that much better, but it sounds a little better to me.

And a random shout-out to the one or two Latvians reading this fic! Seeing you on the Stats page just makes me giggle. :D

That's not to say I don't love all the others reading this. I appreciate you all. ^-^

...And I'd appreciate you even more if you review. x3

* * *

**Kalis White, District 3**

It's the second morning in the Training Center, and I'm still not sure what to do.

Of course, District 3 has yet to bring home a victory, so I don't have a mentor. No one's there to tell me what I should practice, or what I should show off or keep to myself.

Well, I guess Backa the escort could give me some advice, but he doesn't look the least bit erudite or smart. It's probably rude to say that, but it's true.

So the only advice I have to follow wasn't even told to me here. It was told by my uncle, a year ago.

On my eleventh birthday, I got the usual things—hand-me-down dolls, clothes... But Uncle Cearbhall gave me a... different present. He pulled me aside, away from my parents, and gave me a set of throwing needles.

I had no idea why, at first. Giving weapons to an eleven-year-old?

But he told me his reasoning. Next year, he said, I would be eligible to participate in the Hunger Games. It wasn't very likely, but possible. And if I had already trained with something beforehand, I could stand a chance.

And there was no way I could handle something as big as a sword. So Uncle Cearbhall instead chose the smallest weapon he could find.

I thought it was all silly. But he made me practice, anyway. Every time I saw him, which was kind of a lot, he made me throw the needles at a target. Mom and Dad were always at work, but Uncle Cearbhall was out of a job—though he'd built up enough money not to need one—so I ended up staying with him the majority of the time.

He'd show me the best way to throw them, eulogize me whenever I did a good job, and tell me how to fix it whenever I didn't do such a good job.

And my parents never found out. Uncle Cearbhall was careful not to evince what he and I did those long days, because he knew Mom and Dad wouldn't approve.

I always thought I should have told them. It made me uncomfortable holding a secret, but it must have made me more uncomfortable to know I would be betraying my uncle if I told.

Now I'm glad I didn't tell. He was right; I've really gotten into the Hunger Games.

And I wonder, if he hadn't taught me what he did, if I would be here. I knew I had to volunteer for Cindi, but would I have if I didn't know a way to fight? If I hadn't thought I might just have a chance here? Would I have left her to die?

I... I don't think I would, but... I... I don't know.

But, I guess that really doesn't matter. I'm here now, and that's what I need to focus on. I need to make sure I can win this, because I promised. I promised her, and Mom and Dad, and Uncle Cearbhall, and everyone else that visited me for my "final goodbye". I promised them all that I would come back.

And I'm going to keep that promise, no matter what.


	28. Notice

**A/N:** Hello, all. This story is officially on hiatus.

It's very likely to be cancelled completely. I'm not enjoying writing it as much as I did, people are removing it from their favorites and alert lists, and no one is reviewing any more, at all.

So, unless I get some hardcore begging to continue, this fic will be cancelled.

Thanks for reading.


	29. The One

**A/N: **Yes, this fic is back. I finally decided to quit being lazy, blow away the dust, and get typing. I can't promise the type of updates the fic started with- but it will go back to updating.

Enjoy, and review if you can.

* * *

**Oakley Ardsett, District 11**

Circe sat with us for lunch again. Last time, I didn't say a word to her, assuming she'd start the conversation.

But that didn't work. And this is too rich a possibility to risk.

So I talk.

"What do you want?" It's a good way to start. I don't want to sound overly desperate. But I can tell the emptiness my voice has taken on in the last few months still lets me sound desperate enough.

"Wh-what?" Circe responds immediately, looking like she wasn't expecting me to talk today, either.

"Why do you keep sitting by me?" I iterate, turning to look at her.

I can tell she's scrambling for an answer.

"I... I want to make an alliance."

Though I'm doing my best not to look excited, I can't quite keep my eyelids from flaring in delight. I turn back to my food to hide it and hurriedly reply, "You pity me."

"No, I don't... pity you." It's obvious she's lying, but what do I care? She can have whatever reason she wants as long as she still allies with us.

But she can't know that.

"Then why do you want an alliance with me?" I respond, attempting to drain my voice of any left-over eagerness.

"Well, because... I mean..." She clears her throat nervously, to buy some time. "The only reason anyone would want an alliance, I guess. Two heads are better than one and all. Um, right?"

I give a slow nod in response, taking another bite of my food. Turning to face Maddox—he's sitting right next to me, as he was last time—I address him.

"Maddox?" is all I ask. The "do you think she's easy enough to kill" part is inferred.

Maddox takes a moment to respond; he's probably making sure not to accidentally tip Circe off.

"I don't mind."

My foot twitches in excitement, but I can't let it show in my voice.

"All right. We'll let you join the alliance," I say to Circe, making myself sound unenthused. I suddenly feel like my response wasn't authentic enough for an actual alliance. "But if you screw up once, you're gone," I add.

"Understood," Circe replies quickly. "Thank you so—"

"Lunch over!" interrupts the official from a distance. The three of us get up to put away our plates.

This girl is so gullible it's hard to believe. Either that, or I'm a much better actor than I thought.

So, what now? It's back to training. What would a normal alliance do? Hit the stands together, to know each other's strengths? That would work well for us, too. We wouldn't want Circe to strike us with something we weren't prepared for.

"We'll go around the stands and show our strengths," I whisper to Circe as we set our plates in the designated area.

"Right."

The three of us step out into the rest of the gymnasium, and I nod at Circe. Might as well get through her strengths first so we don't miss anything.

She scurries off to a javelin stand and starts throwing them pretty well.

...All right. Let's pay attention. Maddox and I want to know her inside and out so when the time comes...

We'll get our one kill from her.

And then... the real competition starts.


	30. Wonder

**A/N: **This chapter might be a bit annoying to read, because... For lack of a better term, Zeef is a redneck.

* * *

**Zeef Simon, District 10**

Even though everything else about the Games stinks worse than a heaping pile of cow manure, I kinda like the Training Center.

I ain't the most suited for hand-to-hand combat—never did nothing back home but wrassle some bulls around—but I ain't too bad at boxing. Sure, I'm too slow to keep from getting hit a heckuvalot, but it's fun. And I ain't too bad at getting my own hits in, either.

Of course, I can't really tell if the trainer's going easy on me—but what the hey. Either way, I ain't doing too bad.

Still kinda weird to think something this fun is something I'm supposed to use to kill people. I've never killed nothing before, except a bull or two. Don't know how exactly I'm planning on doing it to humans.

Well, doesn't matter right now. I'll just... keep on here 'til they pull me out of the Center.

Yeah. Sounds like a good enough plan to me.

I've hit a few stations besides boxing before it's time to round up and head back to the rooms. Boxing's still my favorite, though.

I get on the elevator with a couple of other tributes. The guys from 7 and 2 are crowded in right next to me.

Wonder if either of them're good boxers? The 2 is a Career dude, probably, so he knows how to fight, and the 7 ain't that weak-looking, either. Bet it'd be fun to box with either of them. Don't think I'd get the chance to, though. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves much.

...Wonder if they think I'm weird for enjoying myself. I mean, sure, we're going into the arena in... another day... But you might as well enjoy this stuff while it lasts, you know? It's gonna go quicker than a fresh-baked pecan pie. And those go quick in my house since so many kids're running around.

I got two little sisters, an older sister, three older brothers, and a baby brother. There's a pretty big advantage on the ranch to having a bunch of workers you don't pay running around. Or at least, when you're in one of the families lucky enough to own a ranch. I'm lucky like that.

Wonder how my family's doing now. I bet my parents ain't doing too good. The older kids ain't gonna be happy, either. Some of the little ones ain't gonna know what's going on, hopefully.

...What _is _going on? I'm trying not to think about it, but... It's still gonna happen. I'm still gonna go off to the Games and probably get killed.

And there ain't nothing to like about that.


	31. Not Much Hope

**Randa Redding, District 12**

This is all hopeless. Maybe I can throw a javelin all right. Maybe I can tell a blueberry from nightlock. But in the end it won't help. I'm too worn-looking. I've shown far too many weaknesses in the Training Center. No one is going to bother allying with me. And there's no way I'm going to win by myself. So it's hopeless.

I don't think it would hurt to just roam about and stop worrying about impressing people. Because I'm not going to. But I have no idea what else I would do.

I end up at the weaving station. The first victim of my craft is some thin, wood-like material. If you could call it a craft. It's more like a sad attempt at jamming a few bark strings into one another. The instructor, Epsilon, tries to help me. Once it's obvious I'm getting nowhere, though, she goes off to help another tribute.

I experiment dubiously with the material I was given before finally giving up and looking around.

The one Epsilon is helping is the girl from 5. Nuray, I think. She's thirteen, and not in any sort of shape. I bet she's not getting alliance requests all over the place, either.

Neither of us is well-off. Only one tribute is going to come out of here alive, and it's obvious it won't be Nuray or me.

With a sigh, I wrap one of the string things around my index finger. I can't believe I've been thrust into this. Just sentenced to death by the drawing of a tiny piece of paper. Funny exactly how insignificant my life is now.

Not that it's been significant before. I don't have any siblings to influence. I only have one friend, and she's too independent for me to sway her. I never had a boyfriend.

Never will, I guess.

...And neither will the girl next to me.

I let the string thing expand and unwind itself from my digit.

Yeah. Neither of us has much time. For all I know, we'll both die in the bloodbath. That gives us... about a day. Fun stuff.

"Hey... Randy?"

I turn slowly toward the speaker. Toward Nuray.

"Randa."

"Oh, right!" Nuray stares down at her twiddling, stubby fingers for a moment before looking back toward me. "Um, I was... I wanted... Um..." She takes a very deep breath. "Will you be my ally?"

I blink. "Why?"

"I... I don't know..." Nuray mumbles, fumbling with her weaving material. "I just... I mean, if you don't want to, it's... a-all right, but..."

"...No, that's fine," I start slowly, unwinding the last bit of string-ish thing from my finger. "I'd... be happy to."

Nuray immediately perks up. "Really?"

A vague smile creeps across my face. "Yeah. Really."

"Great!" Nuray gasps. "Thank you!"

I kind of chuckle. "No problem."

Nuray scoots a little closer to me, abandoning her weaving project. "So, should we discuss our strategy our something?"

"I'd say our strategy is... To not die."

Nuray bursts into gasping little giggles that sound more nervous than amused. "That sounds good!"

"Sounds good to me, too," I reply. "So let's do it."

...Yeah. Easier said than done.


	32. Do or Do Not

**A/N: **Yes, a Star Wars reference. Because I can.

Thank you to those of you who reviewed!

* * *

**Euriloc Uslo, District 8**

I don't know about this. The whole "coming back" thing. Yes, I want to. Yes, I have to.

But I'm starting to seriously doubt if I'm able to.

A few hours ago, I had to demonstrate my abilities to the Gamemakers. I did the best I could, trying to cover all of the long-range weaponry I was decent at before they dismissed me. I didn't think they were paying much attention, but I did my level best, anyway, you know?

And then, just a few minutes ago, I finally saw my score on television.

A 5.

5. Out of 12.

...

That's _bad_.

I mean, I wasn't expecting an 11 or anything, but... _5_? No one's going to sponsor me with that score! I still have interviews to impress them, but what's it matter? There have been plenty of totally charismatic guys with girlfriends that haven't gotten sponsors. No one's going to throw away his money for me just because I made him laugh. Because, with a 5, no one's going to think I can win this. I haven't really thought I've been capable of doing so, but... The audience doesn't need to know that. Maybe, if they could send a nice enough weapon, I could get out of there.

But there's no way that'll happen now. I won't have enough funds to _start_ the Games right, let alone get out of them alive.

And as horrified as I am of death—what'll happen to _Arabia_ if I'm killed? She'd lose it. While it's hard for me to think about life without her, she's _completely_ crazy over me. She'd just be a wreck if I had to leave her behind and die here.

...But what else am I supposed to do? I could try to hide out in the Games until there aren't many people left, and hope somehow I end up with some dead tributes' sponsors. That approach isn't very likely—who knows how empty the arena might be?

I could try and get some strong allies. But that'd be hopeless, too. Even if I'm smart, I'm scrawny. No one would want to bother trying to keep me alive because I wouldn't be a use to them.

So what other options are there? Somehow lose my mind and turn into a killing machine? That won't do much good if I'm still too weak to swing an axe.

There really aren't any options. Just try not to die, somehow. I don't know. Sorry, Arabia. I really don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'll try to make it out for you, of course, but...

I don't think I'll be able to.


	33. Upcoming

**A/N: **Please review! Whether you liked the chapter or not, I always love to know what the readers are thinking.

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****

Twig Antwerp, District 4

Well, it's finally interview day. I've been trained and drilled for this for years—not to mention the fine-tuning in the past couple of days with my escort.

Yeah, seems kind of weird they'd train us for the interviews at the Career place back home. You know, the whole Capitol's aware I'm from a Career district. And on top of that, I'm not one of those scrawny tributes, either. The Capitolgoers should already be willing to send their money over.

But the interviews are important nevertheless. The Capitol has its share of unobservant airheads, so some of them may not have noticed their cash would be well-betted on me. And, since Caesar Flickerman, who as far as I know is the utmost of Capitol celebrities, is hosting... More people'll pay attention. And I have to make sure I don't waste it.

So I've been working on my angle for a while, as everyone should. It's kind of hard to describe. Confident, strong, pleasant, but a little deadly. It's an interesting mix that just works for me.

The strong part's not exactly brain surgery for a guy like me. I'm already eighteen, I've been training to be a Career for all of my teen years and a little more, and I didn't have that bad a body structure to begin with.

I'm not bad at being pleasant, either. Just because I've been trained to kill doesn't mean I can't be sociable and make some good friends. It's just something else that comes pretty naturally to me.

Guess I won't get to be that friendly in the arena, though. Still get to joke around with the other Careers for a while, but... When the time comes, I have to do what I have to do, you know? And then I can go back home and yuck it up with my friends there.

I do miss my friends. It's only been a little while since the reaping, but... It gets a little lonely when you suddenly realize you're half a nation away from everyone you know. And it'll probably be a good two weeks minimum before I can get back to them. All of them, Mom and Dad, my obnoxious but lovable big sister... They're all waiting for me. They'll all be cheering for me.

And they're not going to be disappointed. Like I said, I'm strong. I have the training. The weapons skills, survival techniques, fighting methods. I can win the Games fine.

And then I go back. Meet back up with everyone I love. Have a few tours of Panem. Hang out in the Victor's Village. Get to know District 4's up-and-coming tributes... for generations.

But that's all later. Way later. So it's no use letting my mind wander off to that time. I should focus on the interview.

Because right now it's interview day.

And we'll take it from there.


	34. Change

**Shaw Telfair, District 12**

"I just don't know _what _we're going to do with your hair, darling...!" half-sighs, half-trills the head stylist, whose name is—oddly—The.

She's been fretting about my hair since day one. Admittedly, it's not the shiniest shade of sable, and it has a tendency to be a tangled mess, but I think these Capitolians are fretting far too much about it.

Of course, I don't agree with much of anything the Capitol does. All of this fashion—not to mention the freaky body piercings and implants—the crazy names, and of course supporting the Games in the first place.

I always hated the Games. I never cheered or booed a single tribute, I never reacted to a kill, and I just never got involved. The whole thing is a whim of the Capitol to punish our parents for the rebellion, and no matter what the tributes do, it's never their own faults. None of them would resort to such a thing without being thrust into the arena. Even the Career tributes that have popped up—they would never have reason to throw their lives to the Hunger Games if they never existed.

So it has nothing to do with the people. The Capitol makes them all monsters in some way.

And I'm not going to try to resist.

I won't come home. Little Kiera won't get to see her big brother again. My parents have pretty well already lost their son. Because, if Shaw Telfair wins the Hunger Games, he won't be the person they know.

And if he doesn't win... My family's still lost me.

It's inevitable. They'll never see me, the human, again. If Shaw Telfair comes back, he'll just be a monster. Someone they won't want to associate with.

Maybe they'll pretend I'm still the same. Try to impose what they knew me to be on the monster since we'll look about the same.

But they'll just be fooling themselves. But _I'm_ not going to fool myself. I already know I'm not going to come out of this.

A sudden yanking on my hair brings me back to the current world, and The squeaks in surprise.

"Sorry, darling!" she says in her strange Capitol accent. She giggles. "I guess that didn't work, huh?"

"Guess not," I respond blankly, trying to resist the urge to put my hand to the throbbing part of my scalp.

"Well, let's try something else, then!"

I stand patiently—all right, maybe more like boredly—as she shuffles through the drawers. I don't know what she was trying to do to my hair, but it still hurts. And it seems odd enough The would still be working on me. None of the assistant stylists could do anything with my hair, and The herself couldn't fix it for the chariot.

But the Capitol ways have never had to make sense.

And I don't think they ever will.


	35. Surrounded

**Sunil Shimnon, District 9**

Crap, crap, _crap_, it's interview time.

I adjust my little bowtie nervously as the tributes ahead of me file onto the stage.

Aah! I'm so nervous for this. I'm usually kind of jittery, but the lights, and the sponsors my life will rely on, and the interviewer, and—man, the audience is really huge!

I feel dangerously close to puking by the time I get to my seat. I'm already sweating—who knew those stage lights could get so _hot_—and I'm seriously tempted to take off the jacket of my little tux.

Oh, I shouldn't do that. The stylists would get mad at me. Because I know they spent all this time making sure everything looked perfect, and it'd be mean to change anything.

But I've pulled the seams of my shirt cuffs to shreds by the time the interviewer has called up the girl from 1, who looks _really _strong and scary.

I-I don't like the Careers. They're always so angry and tough, and hardly any tributes can stand up to them.

Let alone me. I-I'm still just twelve. I know I'm going to die.

Is the 1—Kyta—going to be the one to kill me? She looks like she'd make it really slow and painful.

I quickly turn my attention back to destroying my clothing hems. I really don't want to think about that stuff.

But it's hard not to. With Kyta's menacing voice booming around the stage, the words are practically impossible not to make out. But they're so scary I really just want to ignore them.

And, just before I've completely ripped out my jacket's right arm's hem, the bell finally buzzes, and Kyta returns to her seat.

But next up is another Career tribute. He's a little easier to ignore, since his voice isn't quite as loud, but he's still acting just as scary.

I-I really don't want to be here. I'm grateful I have some more time before entering the arena, but... I don't want to be _here_. With all of these scary people showing off, and all of these bright lights, and _so _many people in the audience! I-I just want to go home! I just want to run back to the house and hug my mom and my brother and my sister, and...

B-But I know I can't go home. The Capitol would never let me. But even if I couldn't go home... I want to go somewhere else, somewhere that's not full of a bunch of scary people who want to kill me. And it's not even just the Careers! The other kids—most of them will want to kill me, too. And so does the audience! If I die in some interesting way, they'll be cheering for whoever murders me!

S-Stop it! You're just making yourself freak out! It won't do you any good, even if it is all true.

...But it's impossible to ignore the situation.

I bite back worried tears as the hem on my sleeve comes completely loose.


	36. Reasoning

**A/N: **Apologies for the short chapter. I'm blocking a bit.

****

* * *

Atticus Finch, District 10

"Hon, do you want any more of this stew before I put it up?" calls the wife from the kitchen.

I'm a few meters away, on the old couch watching the television. "No," I call back. "But don't put it up just yet—it's almost time for Chara's interview!"

"Ah! All right!" I hear something clunk onto the counter—presumably an empty plastic food container—before my wife scurries into the living room. She takes a seat next to me on our couch. I throw an arm back around her as she settles in.

Halen Crask, the hyperactive interviewer, is dismissing the boy from 9, and the screen pans to watch the little boy take his seat. My daughter is in the seat next to him, and Halen calls her name.

We watch nervously as Chara stands and walks over to the interviewer. Her knees stay stable.

But she'll have to stay standing for the rest of the interview.

"Chara, is it?" Halen opens. My daughter nods. "Well, Chara, how's the Capitol been treating you?"

"Oh, quite well," Chara replies with a smile, not missing a beat. She's probably going for the charming angle, which I think she should be able to pull off easily. "The staff's been exquisite, and the meals are certainly something to be envied."

My daughter's speech tends to become a bit more... flowery when she's nervous. Although it might have annoyed some people back here, I doubt it will be disadvantageous now. If she sounds more intelligent—not that she isn't in the first place, of course—she could sway a few more sponsors to her side.

And I know she'll need that. With her knees—not to mention her Gamemaker score of 3—she'll have to prove she has a non-physical advantage.

I admit, it's not common for the most clever to win the Hunger Games—it's only happened once thus far, with the boy from 6, I believe—but we only have twelve other Games as a basis for that. As the arenas grow more and more elaborate, knowledge becomes more and more vital for survival.

That's not to say Chara still has a good chance. She doesn't. No one with her condition would. But that's no excuse to not hope. Life is unpredictable. Just because it hasn't happened to someone before doesn't mean it never will.

So I still hope.


	37. The Mentor, The Friend

**Coria Beacon, District 5**

I'm woken up late at night by crying.

Granted, I haven't been a heavy sleeper since long before my Games, but even if I were, I may still have been woken up.

It's a girl's crying. I can tell immediately.

Nuray.

I can't blame her for being worried. She's one of the youngest competitors, and she only earned a score of three from the Gamemakers. I don't expect her to do well, and it's easy to tell she feels the same way.

I should go over and talk to her. I probably won't be much help to her later—with her kind of score, she won't get donations, and I'd hate to keep them all away from Odyss.

And... I'm really not sure that she'll even get the chance to receive donations. She'd be easy fodder for the bloodbath. She can't run away quickly. Her only chance is just being lucky. Not being next to a Career's platform. The Careers being distracted by another tribute so she has time to get away.

But I really don't think she'll survive.

I hate to be a pessimist, but... After being in the Hunger Games... After sending ten children to their deaths... I want to be prepared. Because death happens. It's always looming around the corner when one is involved in the Games, and I'd be a fool to try and ignore it.

Just as I'd be horrible to try and ignore Nuray's distress.

I push away my covers and slide my legs around until my feet find their little, fuzzy house shoes. Having the presence of mind not to show myself in my skimpy robe, I grab a more substantial one—I think it's actually a bath robe, but it'll do—and go to my door. I slip the fluffier robe on and tie its waistband before quietly slipping out of my room.

I pad silently through the floor until I near her room. Holding my breath, I knock softly.

"Nuray? Can I come in?"

The sobs break off for a second, and then resume as sniffles. The door clicks open, lending a little light to the hallway. I step inside.

Nuray treads back to her bed and slouches on the foot of it. I shuffle over, take a seat next to her, and throw my arm around her shoulders.

"Why are you crying, sweetie?" I murmur, rubbing her arm a little.

"I'm scared," she ekes out through heavy sobs.

"Of what?" I pry gently.

"Of," she starts, repeating the word a few times before she can finish, "dying." She breaks down into weeping again.

"It's okay," I say, knowing neither of us believes it, but it's still nice to hear. "Don't worry about it, okay, sweetie?"

She looks at me tearfully and disbelievingly, her mouth ready to make a "w" sound, but her lungs not complying.

I smile sadly, giving her shoulders a squeeze. "I know things don't look good right now. And they might not look good for a while. But whatever you do, don't worry about it. Worrying only makes things worse. Do you think dying is bad?" I prompt. She nods. "But isn't worrying about dying horrible, too?" She nods again. "Then don't worry," I say quietly, leaning in close to her ear. "Just relax and do your best. There's nothing else you can do, and there's nothing else I would expect you to do. Okay?" I pull back a little bit, keeping a firm arm around her. It takes a minute, but she finally voices a broken "okay".

I smile at her again. "All right. Can I leave you to sleep, or do you want me to stay until you nod off?"

She looks at me for a second, tries to say something, and then gives up, shakily holding up two fingers instead. The second option.

"Okay. I'll stay."

Nuray takes a deep breath, her sobbing starting to weaken.

"Shall I tuck you in?" I offer. "You'll never get to sleep if you just sit here."

She nods, and, slowly, I coax her to lie down and I tuck the covers in underneath her, leaving her arm out so I can squeeze her hand.

And then I stay.

Because it's all I can really do.


	38. Pretty

**Regalis Cero, District 8 Head Stylist**

I wish the hovercraft wouldn't tint its windows. I still don't know why they do that on the ride to the arena. It must be some security measure, to keep the tributes from knowing where they're headed or something. But why shouldn't they know where we're going? Can they recognize their districts from the sky? I know I couldn't, and I've actually _seen _the bird's-eye pictures of them. These kids haven't been flying above their homes, so I don't see why they could recognize something they've never looked at.

And what advantage would it be to them, anyway? They never know what's in the arena. Or maybe that's because of the windows.

Oh, I don't know. I only want an excuse to look out at the landscape flying along beneath us. Things just look so pretty from above.

And I like pretty things. Of course I do. I'm a stylist. And not one of those unqualified losers who just wants something to do with the Hunger Games. I honest-to-goodness love what I do.

This, of course, has led to a few jabs at which gender I prefer, but I'm obviously not gay. Women are much prettier than men, after all.

That's also why I've taken on the female tribute for 8. This year it's Esen Walker. She's a pale, skinny thing, and not much to work with. But I've still had my fun with her. She's been cooperative enough—in contrast to the gossip I heard about the boy from 3—so I can't complain.

I don't think she's going to survive, though. She got a Gamemaker score of 5, she has no muscle definition, and... I don't know. She doesn't have drive. She's got nothing to keep her going. Unlike a lot of other tributes, she doesn't have siblings. She has parents and friends, of course, but so does everyone else. She just doesn't have enough to get back to.

That, and she's utterly terrified. Ever since the Training Center, she's been constantly trembling and wringing her hands together nervously. I don't know what happened, but she's just paranoid. While that's kind of helpful in a place where everything _is_ going to be out to get you, she doesn't have enough skill to pull it off correctly.

Tsk. It's a shame. District 8 hasn't brought back a Victor yet, and it doesn't look like it'll happen this year. Esen's district partner only got a 5 in training as well, and he's no more muscular than her.

Phooey. I don't like watching my kids die. Hopefully they'll get all dirty first so I can't moan about the Capitol destroying my handiwork. Because I really hate when something I've worked hard to make pretty is destroyed. I've slapped a tribute more than once for getting dirty shortly after the chariot rides.

Oh, but there's not much I can do about anything. I'll keep doing my job, and the Gamemakers and tributes can do theirs.

In the meantime, I can partake in my _beautiful_ view of the completely black window.


	39. Not So Bad

A/N: Our District 3 boy is back, so so is the swearing. Be ready.

* * *

**Phemus Sept, District 3**

These clothes don't f***ing fit. I know all this sh*t is standardized so no one tribute has an advantage over another because of dress, but really? This shirt's clinging to me like it's soaking wet, and the tops of the boots are so tight they're starting to make my f***ing feet go numb. You'd think if the Gamemakers go through all this trouble to make us fight to the death, they could figure out how to give a guy clothes that fit.

Tch. Either they're just f***ing idiots—which I highly suspect—or they're just trying to punish me before they even throw me up there.

That's not far away, though. I'm already in the Launch Room, and it looks like everything's ready. My stupid bitch of a stylist is the kind of person that has a stroke when things aren't exactly right and exactly on schedule—or at least she acts so idiotically I _wish _she'd get a stroke. Either way, she seems content, so there's nothing more to contribute here.

"It's time to prepare for launch."

I look up at the ceiling for a second before I realize the voice was just some recording blasted over the intercom system.

"Time for you to go, _dearest_," my stylist responds so maliciously I can hear through her accent. She gets up and walks toward me.

I get the feeling she's going to shove me toward my steel circle, so I go ahead and start for before she gets the chance to.

But if she f***ing touches me, I'll still knock her out.

She apparently has enough of a brain to realize this; once I'm up on the circle, she stops coming after me.

For once, she seems perfectly pleased. She's always been too busy shrieking something at me for not cooperating to ever look remotely happy. I guess she's just glad to finally get rid of me.

The feeling's mutual, bitch.

The glass finally sinks down around me, cutting me off from her ridiculous voice forever.

Unless I come back. Sh*t. You'd think they'd let a Victor kick out a stylist he doesn't like, wouldn't you? Hope so. Otherwise my life's going to f***ing suck after winning.

Assuming I win. For all I know, I could get slayed in the bloodbath. Kind of depends on where this circle ends up. If I'm next to that Kyta chick, I'm f***ed. If I end up by some weaklings, well, works for me.

Either way I'm probably going to the Cornucopia. District 3's never gotten a victory before. The Gamemakers were f***ing idiotic enough to give me a score of 7. I'm not going to get crap from sponsors. And there's no way I can win this piece of sh*t without a weapon. I can throw a punch as well as the next guy, but that's not going to get me far by itself.

The platform clicks underneath me and starts to rise. Within a few seconds, my view of the stylist is blissfully cut off. After a little more darkness, I'm in the arena.

The mouth of the Cornucopia is almost exactly facing me. And I can see a pretty kick-a**-looking axe just calling my name.

I check the platforms to either side of me. That boxing guy from 10, and some chick I don't remember. Not Careers. Not killers.

I have solitude from my stylist, promise of a weapon, and no chance of immediate harm.

I think I like these Games so far.


	40. Way Out

**A/N: **Sorry for the late update, all. They should be coming a bit faster now. A bit.

* * *

**Sunil Shimnon, District 9**

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 13th annual Hunger Games begin!"

As the announcer's voice echoes around the arena, I try my hardest not to tremble.

It doesn't work.

I'm in the Hunger Games. I'm too scared to keep from shaking. I mean, people die here! A twelve-year-old has never won before. And I'm no good at fighting, or surviving... All I can do is try to run, but I'm not fast. I've never been.

It's just hopeless. Completely hopeless! I'm going to die here!

And I'm worried about keeping myself from _shaking_? I should be more worried about finding a way to survive, at least as long as I can... I should be paying attention to the Cornucopia, which directly faces me, to see if there's anything that could help me.

...But I know nothing could help me. I'm going to be killed, and I know it. Why do I want to put it off? Just try to survive, get more and more miserable and dirty and hungry and thirsty for nothing? Nothing but a few more breaths? What's the point of that?

I-I don't want to do that. There's no hope, so I shouldn't pretend I can make it out.

I squint at the Cornucopia, gleaming in the light.

Maybe I should just run there and wait. Get killed right here, in just a minute, before I can even start to rot away.

My stomach crawls at the thought of it. Just killing myself like that. Except...

Except it wouldn't really be me. It'd still be some other tribute driving a blade through me.

A larger shudder travels down my spine.

I don't like thinking about how I'm going to die. Everything I've seen in these Games... All of the ends have been horrific. My overactive imagination has already run through all of the deaths I've seen, putting me in the victim's position. And it's scary.

I don't know what it's like. That kind of pain. The worst injury I've ever had was a broken nose when I tried to slide across a wood floor in socks. That hurt, but there's no way it's anything like the stuff that happens here. I've never done so much as slip up cutting veggies and slash a finger. Let alone getting a knife actually shoved through me. I have no idea what it would feel like, but it has to be painful.

But it still ends eventually, right? I mean, most of the tributes don't try to torture people. They just whittle away the competition as efficiently as they can.

Except some of the Careers don't... Some are just... psychos.

Suddenly paranoid, I check the plate to my left. The boy from 10. He's friendly, so I should be safe.

I check my right and freeze.

It's the girl from 1. Kyta. The girl who, from her voice to her constant glare, has terrified me from the beginning.

_And she's right next to me_.

I can't do this. I-I can't do this. She-she's not nice. She'll make me die in a horrible way, I just know it.

But what else can I do? I want to die now, but I don't want _her_ to kill me...!

As I keep shaking, I suddenly notice the slightest clattering sound and look down.

The platforms... They're... They're rigged, aren't they? To blow up anyone who steps off them too soon.

That's an awful way to die.

But it's fast. I can do it now.

And it's not Kyta.

Pulse roaring through my ears, I look down for another second before finally swallowing my fear.

I step off.


	41. Begging

**Nuray Pless, District 5**

When I hear the boom, I'm so tense I almost spring off my plate. It takes me a minute to realize that was not the gong, and another moment to be very grateful I didn't step off.

And then the gong sounds.

Having had just enough time to get back unwound, I end up hesitating for a few precious seconds before remembering what I'm supposed to be doing and turning around.

I bolt.

If you could call it that. I'm still no good at running—why do you think I'm not trying to get any supplies from the Cornucopia?—so this may just qualify as a normal person's jog.

However you classify me, I'm still going as fast as I can. My life is on the line right now, so there's a fair amount of adrenaline, but there's not quite as much fear as I expected. I mean, I have an alliance. If I can get out of here, I have help. Alliances usually do pretty well—the Careers are an alliance, aren't they?—so it's nice to have _some _hope, at least.

I keep running, but it's hard. The mud here is not only trying to suck at my feet but also decorated with tall stems of strange, bamboo-ish stalks.

But it's okay. Just keep going. No one's found you yet, and no one will!

And then someone grabs my arm.

I instantly shriek without realizing it and try to pull my arm away. My attempt is futile; it dawns on me that my captor is Twig. The scarily-muscular boy from 4. I'm not going to get away from him.

"Please let me go!" I gasp, trying to keep from hyperventilating. "I-I'm only twelve," I say, deciding to play one of the very few cards that might make a Career reconsider. Okay, so I'm thirteen, but maybe he doesn't know that? Please don't let him know that—this is my only chance! "I have my whole life ahead of me!"

Twig cocks his head to the side. "I'm not so sure about that."

My heart sinks. He may not know, but he doesn't even care.

He tugs me toward him suddenly, and I quickly lose footing on the marshy ground and slide over.

"Please don't, please don't—!" I cry frantically.

"Sorry, kid. I've got a job to do," he says with a shrug, putting his palms on either side of my head.

He wrenches my head around hard.

I only hear the slightest of snaps before my spirit runs from my body.


	42. Not on Your Side

**Pich Ave, District 6**

The announcer... announces the beginning of the Games, and I look around. I already know I'm not going for the Cornucopia, but there are some useful items temptingly close. Very near my platform is an aged umbrella, and just a bit beyond that lies a tiny can of mace.

Man, that'd be useful. It may not be much, but you don't need much with that stuff, right? And it's not going to kill anyone—as far as I know—but it buys time, and time's deathly important here.

Speaking of which, I'll have to decide really soon if I actually want to go for this.

Well... It's still pretty far from the Cornucopia. There are a lot of better weapons strewn about elsewhere, so maybe the crowd will go after those instead? I think I have pretty good odds...

And then I realize Glaucus is on the platform next to me, shaking his head.

"I shouldn't go?" I mouth, not sure if communication is allowed at this point.

He mouths back, and it takes me a minute to figure out it was something along the lines of "You shouldn't."

"Together?" I suggest silently, eyeing and nodding toward the can.

Glaucus shakes his head vehemently. Once he's sure he's gotten his point across, he tilts his head back, away from the Cornucopia. _Go that way instead_.

I give a short nod to show I understand, and Glaucus turns away stiffly, facing the Cornucopia.

I follow suit. I guess we don't really want to reveal what our plans are, after all. Things are working out pretty well already—to think we actually ended up right next to each other on the platforms!—and it would be horrible to ruin it now.

Well, I guess it would be horrible to ruin it, period, but that has to happen eventually...

Okay, I don't need to be thinking about that. I need to focus. The terrain's pretty weird here, so I'll have to be careful when I'm running. The gong will go off soon, and—

My thoughts are interrupted by an explosion.

I barely keep myself from jumping a little as smoke wafts up from the other side of the circle.

...Things didn't turn out very well for that tribute, huh?

I have just enough time to regain my focus before the starting gong bangs.

I take one backward step from my platform, splashing a foot in the mud and pivoting. Taking off, I get through a few paces before Glaucus has caught up with me. He grabs my arm—it seems kind of weird, but I guess we wouldn't want to get separated—and we end up slowing down a little.

"Hurry!" I gasp, although the need for acceleration is obvious. Glaucus complies the slightest bit before turning his head away from me.

And then he yanks me behind him.

I stagger, trying to regain my footing and my composure, but by the time I register what's happened, Glaucus's hand has disappeared from my person. I'm met with a new wave of confusion—shortly before I'm met with a fist to the back of the head.

Before I can topple over face-first into the mud, my arm is grabbed again.

Ah! Glaucus is back—!

And then I realize the hand belongs not to Glaucus, but to my attacker.

I'm whirled around, coming face-to-face with Rim from District 2. His fist collides with my head once more, sending pain rocketing across my skull and flashes of light through my field of vision.

I finally get the presence of mind to run, but I can't—Rim's gripping me too hard. I can only tug him vaguely toward me before he pounds into my head again. And again. And again.

A faded image of my parents flashes through my mind before everything goes black.


	43. Monster

**Glaucus Trayle, District 6**

I take a deep breath as my platform rises, going through my plan again.

If there are only Careers next to me, I run away.

If there are only weak tributes next to me, I grab something useful and run away.

And if there is a Career and a weak tribute on either side of me… Run away, and use the weak one as a human shield.

It's vicious and horrible. But I have to do it. I have to be a horrible person here. Nice guys don't win. And if I don't win…

I can't imagine how hard it would be for Chantrea and Ayla. They're so young. They're barely beginning to understand what happens in these Games. And for me to be killed here… I can't do that to them. I've seen the faces of those who've lost loved ones in the Games. Even dead, the tribute is always there… Haunting them…

I won't let that happen. I don't care what I have to do. I don't care what I have to become. I'd rather be a total monster to everyone here, for a few weeks, than be a monster gnawing at the consciences of everyone I love, until the end of time.

The platform clicks in place, and my eyes adjust to the change in lighting.

To my right is a Career. I'll be running.

To my left is… Pich.

And now I see the flaw in my plan. There's a Career and a weaker tribute. I accounted for that situation. But I never thought it would be her. My only ally… But…

But I have to go through with this. My life is in jeopardy here. Pich would have to die for me to get home, anyway. So it's a little—a lot—sooner than I was hoping. But she'll still be out of the way.

I look at her for a moment before realizing she's eyeing a can nearer the Cornucopia than the platforms. I start shaking my head no, hoping she'll notice.

To my relief, she does. I silently convince her to start the other way once the gong sounds. That way, it'll be easier to grab hold of her.

I ignore the explosion when it happens. Just another person out of my way. Just a little easier to get back home to my family.

The gong bangs.

I turn around immediately, starting at an angle toward Pich. We both run, and I've caught up to her in a few moments. She doesn't react much when I grab her arm, thankfully, and we keep running.

I can see the Career coming after us. He draws closer and closer.

And once he's within a foot, I throw Pich to him and sprint. Crunching sounds and cries of pain from behind me follow. I take a deep breath to make it a little easier to ignore. I had to do that. The Career's distracted, so I should be able to get away. I can fight another day. I can get back to my sisters.

I stumble suddenly.

It's not enough to fall into the marsh, luckily enough.

But it is enough to make the Career catch up.

I'm thrown to the ground, and a foot is stomped harshly onto my back. I can't lift my head out of the mud to breathe, let alone to say sorry to anyone, before my skull is bashed in.


	44. Miscalculation

**Esen Walker, District 8**

I'm shaking heavily by the time the platform rises to meet the arena.

How could I not be? The Hunger Games are about to start. In—in _minutes_! Barely over _one _minute! It's much easier to focus when you know you still have time to prepare, still have time to live for sure…

But that's not the case anymore. The arena is right in front of me, strange plants blocking my vision, nearby tributes' as well as my own breaths echoing around my head, the overly powerful sun beating down on me, a rotten stench rising from the muddy marsh at my feet, unfamiliar chitterings and chirps drifting here from the tangle of trees beyond. Nothing about this place makes me feel comfortable.

Well, that's fine by me. I shouldn't be comfortable. I should be alert. I… I know where I am, and where I am requires cognizance. I need to focus on my strategy.

First I check the platforms next to me. My district partner Euriloch is poised on my left, and the beauty queen Career is on my right.

Close to my platform, on top of a shorter bunch of the peculiar plants, is a thin, black baton. Not much of a weapon. A bit further lies an umbrella, and a step further from that is a one-shoulder knapsack.

The last draws my attention most. Its black strap—the only part on it a color other than bright blue—is stretched snugly over the top of one of the tube plants. The stem thing dips the slightest bit, which makes me think the bag is comfortably full. It's probably food. I'll need food.

I glance at the environment once more. Wood is everywhere. I could make my own weapon. Besides, it would be dangerous to go much further toward the Cornucopia, even if a nicely-carved dagger is positioned temptingly close behind the knapsack. Maybe my sponsors could send me a weapon.

In whatever case, I shouldn't go past that knapsack. I will grab it and run the other way. Or whatever way isn't occupied.

I have time to take a few deep breaths before the gong booms and I sprint off.

I barely calculated the slipperiness of the mud—but luckily it's not much, and I adjust my footing before passing the umbrella. Using the plants to intercept my momentum, I come to a shaky stop by the knapsack, slam it down over my shoulder, and spin back around.

Euriloch has already disappeared, but the Career is close. I angle myself back in Euriloch's direction and find the only tribute near is the twelve-year-old. Exhaling a bit in relief, I take off toward her.

She seems startled, and she doesn't make any sort of move toward me. I run past her easily.

I'm tempted to check my knapsack, but it's too soon. I at least need to get to the ring of trees before I can think about stopping.

The mud continues to slosh away as I press on.

And then there's a sharp little pinprick in my back.

I slow in confusion, craning my neck around to the right to see who it was. I can't make out anyone, so I start to turn the other way.

Suddenly three more pinpricks hit me.

I cough for some reason, stumbling and ending up on my side in the mud. I start to push myself back up shakily before I faintly register I'm having a little trouble breathing.

Calm down. Don't start hyperventilating. It's not going to help you get out of here alive!

But I'm not trying to hyperventilate. I just can't quite suck the air in in the first place.

Black fog starts to swim into my head, and before I even have time to realize I'm dying, I cave into blackness.


	45. Put Up a Fight

**Zeef Simon, District 10**

By the time the announcer has let the Hunger Games begin, I'm trying to slow down the pulse rushing through my ears.

I haven't been thinking about the Games much before now, but there ain't no avoiding 'em when you're right in the middle of 'em.

And that's where I am. On a shining platform next to a buncha others, staring down the mouth of that gleaming Cornucopia.

I ain't going toward that thing. I got all the weaponry I need right here in my fists, and there ain't anything else important I can't scrounge up around the place. While I ain't much for living like a 'coon in this place, I reckon I don't have much of a choice. I'll figure out a way to survive even if I have to do it like the kind of varmints on the ranch I always hated.

Deciding there's not much strategy to work out, I decide to take a gander around instead. Between me and the Cornucopia's a bunch of reed-looking suckers that'd probably poke you… Well, like a poker, if you get too close. Past the end of the Cornucopia is a big ol' cluster of trees that goes on and on forever. And then just sky.

I look at the tributes around me. To one side is that big guy with the eye-patch. He's looking awful excited. I check my other side. It's that runt-of-the-litter kid from 9. He's just staring down at his feet.

And then he moves.

I don't register the consequences of this until the mines under his platform explode.

No sooner has the roar of the detonation punched my ears through than a sickening gob of flesh smacks hard into my side. I almost stumble off to follow the same fate but manage to keep my balance. There's more than enough blood for the remains to slide back off me, but my skin's crawling more than a worm in the last apple of the harvest, so I sling the chunk away from me first.

The eeriness don't go away. My side's soaked in blood, and my hand isn't far behind. Splatters of what used to be that kid decorate the reed-things, and the smallest puff of smoke continues to rise from the empty platform next to me.

I realize I'm quivering from shock. But who wouldn't be? An innocent little kid jumping to his death, spraying innards all over the place… I've slaughtered my share of bovines, but that ain't nearly the same. Same-looking blood and meat.

But that there wasn't no cow. That was a human being. And there's a lot of a difference between a butcher's work and a murderer's work.

I'm still staring out at the bloody debris when the gong sounds. Halfway snapped out of my trance, I take a step backward from my plate, and I have to wait a second more before the situation finally slams into me. I pivot on my mud-entrenched foot and start running.

A girl steps out in front of me.

Coming to a halt to avoid colliding head-on, I don't recognize her for a minute. But the crazed glint in her eye as she mockingly takes a boxer's stance tells me she must be the girl from 1.

Complying with her silent request, I slip into my own stance, and we box.

It's a good fight. I may not be stronger than her, but I've always been good at ignoring pain. I reckon we're just about even.

She suddenly kicks me where the sun don't shine.

I buckle over from the pain I can't shove aside, and she brings her sharp elbow down on my head. My neck gives, but I don't fall until she slams her foot down on my back. My head suddenly under a layer of muddy water, I strain my neck to get air. She stomps her other foot onto my scalp, forcing my mouth and nose into the ground.

All I can do is get a foul taste in my mouth and wish she woulda played fair before everything goes black.


	46. All Around You

**Randa Redding, District 12**

The side of the Cornucopia stares me down as I glance around to locate my ally. She's on the other side of the tail, her gaze flitting about unfocused.

And she certainly isn't more calmed when the 9 becomes shrapnel.

Although she's farther from him—or what used to be him—than I am, she's more affected. For a second I think her feet leave the plate and cringe at the thought of my only ally leaving early. But her platform doesn't explode. Neither does mine, although it wasn't in much danger of doing so in the first place.

I stand tensely, clenching and unclenching my hands as the clock ticks. I don't take my gaze off of Nuray because I want to go whichever direction she goes. And, once the gong sounds, that direction is straight ahead.

Cursing our respective positions in the circle, I sprint forward, managing not to trip up on the muck around. I have to force bamboo-things out of my way—they break surprisingly easily—to have a relatively clear path. My way forward is still blocked by the occasional survival item, which I go ahead and pick up on my way across. A blanket. A small canteen. A pair of sunglasses. It's not quite enough to weigh me down.

So I easily get halfway to Nuray's platform by the time Twig snaps her neck.

Stumbling as I register the need for course correction, I can't help but stare at her lifeless eyes before they plummet into the mud and out of sight.

Twig notices my staring, and with a sharp swear, I turn ninety degrees and go back to running. Now gasping for breath, I go straight for where an alliance of two is holding hands and fleeing. Rim from 2 goes after them, not seeing me for the moment.

Then one of the allies throws his companion at the Career. She goes down quickly, and Rim pursues the one still alive. I find myself distracted by the girl, falling down to splash sickly into the mud, splattering me with flecks of the brown stuff as well as the blood still trickling silently from her head wounds.

Shaking my head, I go around her and keep running.

A patch of too-vacuuming mud keeps me from going more than one step to my left, so to avoid Rim and the boy—who is now busy having his head crushed—I have to swerve right.

I get away before Rim has finished the job, and for a fleeting second I think I might actually get out of the bloodbath.

That hope passes when Rim grabs the other end of my blanket.

I'm pulled to a halt before I realize I need to let go of the fabric. It falls to Rim's clutches, but it can't keep me from doing the same.

As he first delivers a rib-crushing jab, I wonder if I should fight back. But I know I don't have a chance. Whether I land a hit on him or not, I'll soon be as dead as all of the others.

So I close my eyes, scream from the pain, and surrender to his blows and the darkness that follows.


	47. Job To Do

**Valer Timber, District 7**

Okay. Here goes. Game time. The announcer has announced, the timer's ticking, and we're already down to 23 tributes. I don't know just how much time is left, but I know where I'm going. I ended up too far away from the mouth of the Cornucopia to attempt a run there, but a nice-looking cleaver is about four meters ahead. Tierra said I'm the one getting weapons. I can't score more than this, but it'll do. I just have to run, and get it, and run back off. And we'll meet up somewhere. Yeah.

Okay, okay, I seriously need to calm down a little bit. But there's just so much adrenaline surging through me I can't help my thoughts jumping around like panicked gnats. And I can't let myself calm down too much. But there's no way I can keep myself this wound up.

Well. There are only a few seconds left, anyway. I can relax after I'm out of here.

I end up holding my breath until the gong sounds. Then I rush straight forward with a gasp, trying my hardest not to get tripped up by the muck. I don't, and although a Career was on the plate next to me, she's busy wandering off after another tribute.

But the monster of a Career, Twig, isn't that far away.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to ignore him as I fly past a tin canteen. I'm almost to the hatchet. Almost there!

Using the resistance from the mud to slow me down, I come to a brief halt to lean over and snatch the weapon. It's a quality piece of metal, but it's nothing a District 7 kid can't lift. Victorious but still wary, I turn myself around with the bamboo-things—which snap under my fingers if I push them too hard, but it's not like I'm putting all of my weight on them, anyway—and start the rapid trudge out of the circle.

I've progressed about a foot when something collides with the top of my head. The sudden onset of weight at an angle is too much for me to stay standing, and my knees buckle to launch me into the mud.

Spluttering and aware the weight has left, I spit out some gritty mud and push myself back to my knees. What was that? Did someone club me over the head?

I scramble to my feet, hacking out some more muck and searching for who hit me. So far, it doesn't look like anyone is challenging me. Did they leave me behind as a distraction? Was Tierra messing with me? What…

Okay, okay, crap. Stop worrying about it. I need to get out of here first!

Grateful I didn't lose my grip on the hatchet, I surge straight forward, knocking inconvenient bamboo shoots out of the way with punts. The shoots start to thin out, and I'm to the ring of metal platforms in a minute.

Something grabs my arm.

Heart leaping to my throat, I turn around, ready to use the hatchet once I get a lock on who's there.

But I only just register Twig's face before he grabs my head and wrenches it around hard.


	48. Near Miss

**Bilt Tussworthy, District 1**

So, some kid blows himself up two plates away. Kyta, who just so happens to me right next to me—ugh, kill me now—doesn't seem very pleased with the splotches of gore and hair that end up on her arm. It's so funny to see her displeased from something she can't pin to me that I end up laughing at her. She scowls at me before swearing me out, which only makes me laugh harder.

Admittedly, that's not the best idea, and I end up a little distracted when the gong booms. But hey, I'm in the Career alliance; the big fish aren't going to come after me if I don't get going right away.

Stepping off my platform, I frown in distaste at the muck beneath. Wasn't expecting the place to be squeaky clean, but I didn't want to be splashing around from the first second. Ah, well. At least it's only shin-deep.

I splash my other foot into the water and start trudging toward the Cornucopia. If anyone gets in my way, I'll bash his brains in, but I really prefer to work with a sword if at all possible. And I can see one at the edge of the golden horn, so I'll just snatch it.

Since I was lucky enough to be just about right in front of the Cornucopia's mouth, it doesn't take me long to get there and grab the first decent-looking sword.

And it doesn't take much longer before I'm dodging another tribute's axe.

Glad I was facing the right way, I easily jump out of the weapon's path. The other tribute, Phemus by the looks of it, decides he doesn't need to attack again, grins, and flips me off before turning to run.

"Oh, no, you don't!" I lunge after him with my sword out, getting a nice slash across his back. He emits a pained grunt but doesn't stop running. Ticked off, I jump for him again, but I stumble on an unseen piece of bamboo-weed and come up short.

With a hiss of distaste—I missed a great kill, and if Kyta saw, she'll never let this go—I jump back.

And something stabs between by ribs.

Able to keep myself from crying out in pain, I move forward just enough for the blade to exit, and then I turn around.

Bewildered, Odyss looks up at me—he's squatting down—with his hand wrapped around the newly-bloodied machete in anything but a stabbing position.

Well, accident or not, he just stabbed me in the freaking lung. He's right in front of me, and he's another tribute. Three strikes, dude. You're out.

With a grunt, I bring my sword around, but Odyss, suddenly cognizant, leans backward. He avoids the swipe but stumbles backward into the muck. Taking a swift stride after him, I strike again, getting a slice through his cheek before he can get back to his feet. Although he hisses in pain, he stumbles backward a little more and finally gets to his feet. I have to look up at him now, since he's so tall, but that's no problem.

My sudden hacking, on the other hand, is much more of a problem.

When I lash out at him to slice open his neck, I end up interrupting myself with a loud, scratchy cough, and the jerk of my torso is enough to keep me from inflicting anything lethal. Already panting, I keep on the pursuit, although I can't seem to quite catch up with him. I stay on his tail, though, until we get to the edge of the marshiest area. That's when my vision starts getting blurry.

I get to coughing so much I can't quite keep up my rapid breathing, and I end up collapsing against a tree.

Frick... This is worse than I thought...

Wheezing hard, I try to push myself back from the trunk but don't get far. I swallow some blood trying to fight its way out, but can't keep from sliding down the side of the tree.

So... I'm dying, just like this? An accidental collapsed lung? That's it? Huh... Can't say I thought I was going to die, but I... I always figured it would be in some epic duel with the remaining Career or something...

Guess not.

My senses go black.


	49. Delirium

**Ione Hampur, District 9**

I don't decide much in the minute before the gong sounds. I already figured I'd have to get away from the Cornucopia as quickly as possible; it would be just my luck to jump in to grab something only to twitch and drop it.

That, and the boy from 2 is right next to me. It's not a good idea to hang around him, to say the least.

So, I'll be running away. It's about the only strength I have, anyway, so… I'll just have to hope this somehow works—and do my best to forget that I know it won't work until it happens.

The gong sounds.

With a little gasp of fright, I spin around, away from the side of the Cornucopia, and start running. Although I know it's kind of stupid, I can't help glancing back to check on Rim.

He's going after someone else.

Knowing how far away the rest of the Careers must have been for me not to see them, I feel a little wave of hope going through me. Maybe I can make it after all. I may not do that well afterward, but I can get out of the bloodbath!

With a strange sense of joy that I at least have some running skills, I lay on the speed. It's tricky to navigate through all of these odd plant stalks poking up, but there's enough room to run. The muddy water is eager to splash up all over me, but I don't slip, more thanks to the boots than my own skills.

I cast another glance back. Rim has murdered one of the tributes already, and he's getting after the next one. I still don't seem to be on his list.

The plants start to thin out, and I focus more of my attention on not sliding in the mud. I almost slip up when my knee gives an unwarranted jerk, but it only slows me for a moment. Pulse roaring in my ears, I hope this little sprint can end before a Career sets sights on me.

Feeling a little dizzy from the running and the heat, I end up casting another glance backward. Rim has beaten down his tribute and has caught another by a blanket she's holding. No other Career is anywhere in my view.

I'm going to make it…! I'm going to make it out of here! And then I just keep hiding, and maybe I can make it all the way back home…!

_Stop that! _I suddenly tell myself, giving my head a shake. Yes, yes, maybe, and you don't have to crush your hopes completely. Just… Just remember, the more you think about home, the less likely you are to get there.

Not sure what else to think about, I just think scattered thoughts about the stifling heat until I finally approach a mangrove's trunk.

Trees! Running and trees! Knock on wood, but I'm really liking this arena so far!

I decelerate, cringing internally when my shoulder jerks back a little. Thankfully, I don't have any more twitches when I've stopped in front of the tree, and I can scramble up it as easily as any other.

With a loony-sounding laugh of victory, I let myself collapse on a basket of branches. Since I'm relaxed, my twitches become a little more frequent, but I don't care. It doesn't sound like anyone's come this way, and I don't see anyone coming. Well, my view's a little blocked, but… Ah, who cares?

Wow, it's really hot out here… I'd better get water soon. Sometime after… After the chaos and stuff… When the cannons start firing or something… Yeah, that sounds good.

I roll over a little in the branches and stare sleepily through the leaves.

It's a good minute before I realize someone's approaching.

Exhausted from the sprint, I just kind of keep staring. I think they've already seen me, so moving won't do good. And if they aren't good at climbing trees, there's no reason for me to move.

I'm tired and convinced enough that I'm still just looking on dazedly when an arrow flies into my forehead.


End file.
